T+76: Dash Across North Dakota, Part 2

Mile 2427: MILACA, MN

The story continues….

The only place in the town of Hazelton to get any prepared food is at the Cenex gas station, so we make our way back there, order some food and are completely ignored by the men’s coffee klatch.  The same can’t be said for another long distance bicyclist who straggles in from the heat.  We smile as he goes through the drill with them: “Where you coming from?  Where are you going?  When did you start?  How many miles a day do you make?”  After their questions, we invite him to sit at our table. 

Jeff at the Honey Hub in Gackle, ND
 

This is Jeff Banascek, riding alone across the country.  He began at Anacortes, WA and is following the Northern Tier route, but will end his trip in Washington, DC.  He has never taken a long distance trip before and we are surprised that he has chosen such a big trip for his first effort.  He is on and off the phone, in conversation with his wife, who is serving as Mission Central, making reservations for him, providing guidance on the route, and tracking his every move with a special app that allows her to see where he is.  He was a longtime employee for US Cellular, who just shed hundreds of employees, including engineers like him.  So even though he has only been married a few years and has a young son of just 17 months, they have decided that his break in employment is the time for him to fulfill his lifelong dream.

We compare notes on the trip, commiserate about the monster passes in Washington, moan about the brutal heat and lack of trees, and generally enjoy each other’s company.   The only “accommodation” in Hazelton is camping the city park.   Jeff, feeling as overheated as we did when we first arrived, decides to stay there.  We decide to push on another 26 miles to Napoleon…the next place there is a motel.  However, we promise to reconnect in Gackle, where there a remarkable man named Justin has created a bicyclist’s respite.

Outside of Hazelton, we begin seeing a series of potholes, ponds, and lakes full of the most amazing variety of birds:  many different kinds of ducks, geese, terns, great blue herons, egrets, even pelicans.  There are two big lakes just outside of Napoleon.  We arrive at dusk, and the amount of life in the air as we pass between the lakes and their surrounding marshes is amazing.  There are dragonflies zipping about, frogs plopping in and out, fish rising in numerous concentric circles, swallows zooming around.  Terns are circling furiously in some sort of feeding frenzy.   It is really exciting for two weary travelers who have ridden 74 miles to that point.

The next day we rendezvous with Jeff at Gackle.  Jeff reports that he spent a miserable night at Hazelton, with a very local big rain and wind that kept him up most of the night.  We are all staying at Jason Miller’s Honey Hub: A Bicyclist’s Respite.  Even though Jason and his wife Ginny have left to return to California, they keep their basement and garage open for passing bicyclists.  It’s good thing, too, as there are no motels in town.  With the temperatures way up in the 90’s, a cool basement respite is just that.  We wash clothes and visit.  Jeff is awkward about sleeping in the same dorm bedroom as Wes and I, so sleeps on the couch. It doesn’t look too comfortable. 

We find out more about his life.  He is married to a Sesali, which is a variation of the name Sisalu, which the Indonesian government forced this ethnic Chinese family named Li (or Lee) to adopt.  They were Christians in that very Muslim country and after threats and violence, were able to seek asylum in the US.  The ended up moving to Iowa, where Sesali graduated from college and eventually met her husband through Match.com.  These two are pretty connected technologically.  Not only are they on the phone quite often, they are jointly plotting each move with various computer applications.

Jeff is following the Adventure Cycling maps less and less.  He tells of us a 100 mile bike trail in Minnesota that he is taking and that is included on his map, but not on ours.   I was more than a little bemused to find out that we had be sent 3 year old, out of date maps.  Jeff was going to bee-line to Fergus Falls, where he would have a rendezvous with wife and child.  He couldn’t see the point of going north only to go south.  In the meantime, we all still had to make it out of North Dakota. 

We were up and gone before Jeff was awake, but lost valuable cool time by stopping for breakfast at the slowest café we have seen.  One grizzled man was the entire staff.  The café was full of people: a very large men’s coffee klatch---and a table of women!  While we wait and wait to order, then to eat, we visit with the locals, who ask about the trip and are surprised to learn that a national bike path now goes through their town.  One says, “I wondered why we kept seeing so many people on bikes these days.  Useta be a right rare thing.”

About 30 miles outside of town, we stop in the shade of a rare tree to drink some water and eat an apple.  A youngish woman with blonde hair comes over to investigate.  She tells us that they are preparing her parents’ dairy farm for auction after 40 years of operation.  A corporation has purchased the land and will turn it into crop production.  She seemed quite emotional about the whole process and would have continued talking, we guess, but took her leave when none other than Jeff rides up.  He has caught up to us, despite leaving hours later, once again proving that we are the slowest bicyclists on the route.  He tells us that his wife has booked a room in the next town, and that if we want one, we better hurry because it there was only one room left.  I go to make the call….but, of course, no service.  We have to trust to our luck.

We get to the little town of Enderlin after a run of 77 miles and then have no luck.  No room at the Inn.  There is an old hotel we could try.  I call.  The owner is gone for his birthday; there are no rooms available.  When we see it later, we are relieved.  It is a wreck, with broken windows and torn curtains.   Camping is preferable.  Jeff offers us floor space in his room, but we know he has not had good rest for two nights and he has seldom gotten a room, so we demur.  We make a camp in the city park, next to the inevitable train tracks.  Jeff stops by our camp after dinner. We visit a bit, say our good byes and wonder if we will ever cross paths again.  Probably not. We put our tent on the gazebo, and it is a good thing we did because there was a big windstorm that knocked down branches and blew over garbage cans in the night. 

The next day we are faced with a choice.  It is the beginning of the Labor Day weekend.  Do we go to Fargo/Moorhead?  Or should we leave the route, and take the longer freeway ride to Wahpeton, ND, like Jeff is doing.  Wahpeton is south and much closer to the bike trail in Fergus Falls, MN.  We choose Fargo because we have some bike maintenance to do.  We ride down in the nearly flat valley of the Red River.  The air is heavy and it feels like we are riding in a lake bed, because we are.  Many of the businesses in the little towns are already closed for the holiday.  It is hard to find a place to buy food. 

We make it to Fargo, and get the new bike shorts I need.  My bike shorts are now much too big.  They are like wearing a big wet diaper and are rubbing me raw.  Wes has also finally consented to bike clips.  I told him one million times they would make it easier for him.  I think Jeff’s gentle mockery of riding without clips turned the tide. 

They also give instructions how to get to our motel in Moorhead, via linear bike path on the Red River.  When we get to the Roger Maris memorial park and begin taking the bike trail, we are both super excited.  We see a grey squirrel for the first time on this trip; we ride under oak trees and crunch their many acorns, the first hardwoods since we left!  We pass groups of young men who look Ethiopian and see women in hijab.  It feels like home! 

We miss our turn and end up going much too far on the trail, then getting lost as we try to find our way back.  By the time we get to the not-so Grand Inn, we have covered 66 miles that day.  The line of customers in the motel are all people of color, and the young Bengali behind the desk is none too efficient.  However, the room is great and cheap, and we so excited to have made it to Minnesota.  We have covered 215 miles in the past three days. We are tired and will need a day to rest.  But we have made it across the plains before September 1.

We had been so afraid of that passage across the Great Plains.  Even though we still have lots of farm land to go, we are now half-way across the nation.  We are proud of ourselves and relieved that we are done facing those miles and miles with no trees, no shade, and no water.  We try to remind ourselves that Minnesota is north of Iowa, but still, for the first time on this trip, we feel certain we can make it all the way.

 

T+71: Dash across North Dakota, Part 1

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…

 

Posted from Milaca, MN

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.

T+66: We’ve Come this Far by Grace, Part 1

Mile 1914: BISMARCK, SD

Getting to Circle was one of those pleasures that grows tiresome by repetition.  By about the 20^th hill climb and ride down, the thrill was gone.  After our visit with Lynette, the up and down continued and continued.  At about mile 45, we finally got to the end of the pass between the Missouri and Yellowstone Valleys.  All we had to do is turn west and go into the little town of Circle.  Easier said than done.  We faced a ferocious wind, thinking, “Well, at least tomorrow we’ll have a tail wind…”  It takes us almost an hour to go that last five miles.

There is only one motel in this little town and because the weather is still very hot, we don’t want to tent camp in the swelter.  We pull up to the Traveller’s Inn, and our hearts sink.  Not only are there junk cars all around the building, the lounge and café is in a state of complete disarray.  When I pull up to the bedraggled office sign, a passel of pigeons fly out of the long-closed lounge building.  Wes is giving me the fish-eye.  We open the door to the office and our worst fears are confirmed.  It’s a mess.  There is no one at the desk.  It smells of stale cigarettes.  The desk is a pile of papers, with a hand-written journal on top.  We look around at the dusty collection of old advertising signs and wait.

At last the proprietor appears.  He peers at us with goggle eyes, surprised it seems to have guests, although Lynette had called from the post office from Vida, and we told him we were on the way.  Wes says brightly, “Give us your best room!”  Our host says, “Well, I have been doing some renovations, but they aren’t done yet….but I think I can get you a pretty good room.”  He gives us a key and tells us it is around back.  When we cross to the back of this ramshackle motel and see a whole bank of rooms open to the elements, our apprehension only increases.  We are already considering whether we should try to find a place to camp, even if the temperature is over 95 degrees.  The room has a new door, which we open, gingerly…and are pleasantly surprised.  The paint is new, if garish.  The bedspreads and the carpet are new and look clean.  There is a nice little desk, as well as a microwave and fridge.  The bathroom is not very complete and the water faucets are erratic.  It is ok.  We breathe a sigh of relief because this is mediocre trying to be better and not horrible.  

As part of the registration, the proprietor tells us that he also works at the VFW and if we buy the first drink, the motel will buy us the second.  In fact, why doesn’t he give us a ride down there?  We are surprised, but agree after we get cleaned up.  When the time comes, his wife, after hearing the plan and apparently wanting to short circuit her husband’s trip to the bar, takes us to the VFW in a beat up Toyota with only 2 gears.  She barely speaks to us as Wes crams into the tool filled back seat.  At the VFW, we could not have felt more foreign or out of place.  The regulars barely look up and we hover at the end of the bar, drink our canned beer as quickly as possible and leave.

Later, we conk out in our ok room and look forward to a day with a tailwind to push us over the Big Sheep Mountains and into the lovely little river town of Glendive.  We were wrong on every count.  The next morning, we are up early and try to find a café for bite to eat before the ride.  No such luck.  We go out to the highway and sure enough, the wind has turned around and is blowing in our face.  There is a ton of heavy equipment and big trucks on the road.  So we push on.  

 It’s climb, climb, climb all morning over these desert-y sedimentary mountains.  We drop into a little settlement of Raymond where we want to have lunch and it is the first indication that the culture has changed.  At the farm implement/convenience store, the store owner could barely muster a hello to our bright greeting.  When we asked where we could eat our lunch, his “I dunno” was almost surly.  Luckily the postmistress pointed out a little picnic spot across the river in the trees (!) next to a large pond.  The picnic area was bedraggled and the metal shelter moaned in the wind, but it was out of the sun and by some water, so we were satisfied.  At one point, Wes wanders to see the pond and reports, “There’s muskrats here.”  Curious, I go look.  It is not muskrats, but big swirls of fish in low water, heaving and dancing around each other in tight coils of mating, I presume.  I watch from a few feet away.  Normally, fish would see me or my shadow and dart away.  These fish have something else on their mind.

We make our way to Glendive.  About 10 miles outside of town, there begins to be giant lines of empty coal cars just sitting on the tracks, mile after mile.  This is an indication of the change in the energy economy.  Years ago, before the oil and natural gas boom, train after train of coal from Gillette, WY would have come down these tracks.  Now they sit rusting in the scalding wind.

About three miles outside of Glendive, my back tire loses air.  We have been aware of the increasing baldness of my back tire, but there has been no bike shops or stores that carry my size tire for hundreds of miles.  I have a tube and a changing kit, but with a worn out tire, using either would be a lost cause.  We limp into Glendive, and turn into the John Deere supplier and ask if they can direct us to the bike shop in town.  It is gone.  Check K-mart and the hardware stores.  Nothing at the K-mart.  I call the stores in town. (For the first time in weeks, because I-94 passes through Glendive, I have phone service!)  No luck.  Now what?  No tire, no move.

I move into Major Problem Solving Mode; Wes moves into Major Distress Mode.  I offer a bunch of different solutions; Wes tells me why they are All Wrong.  This is typical.  I find out the closest bike shop is 60 miles away, in the little tourist town of Medora, ND, adjacent to the Teddy Roosevelt National Park and on the Maah-Daah-Hey Mountain Bike route.   A call to the Dakota Cyclery confirms that they have one tire that will work.  Now how to get it from there to us? 

This is where one of the most amazing moments of the entire trip begins.

While Wes and I think about UPS or renting a car, Jennifer Morlock,  a founder, along with the husband Loren, of Dakota Cyclery, says, “Let me make a few calls to see if anyone is driving over to Glendive and can bring you the tire.”   We decide we better get a place from which to solve this problem.  I call 5 or six motels in town.  All are booked.  The last one, the lowest rated, I finally call.  It has a room.  It will have to do.

We walk my bike from the industrial outskirts, over the Yellowstone River, to the discombobulating and dusty downtown.  Far from the green oasis we had envisioned, this is a town cut into sections by the freeway, the river, and the railroad.    It feels beat-up and hard-used.  On the way to the motel, we get a call from Jennifer.  She has found someone who will deliver the tire to us:  Andrew Gilchrist, a Briton who now lives in Red Lodge, MT and is driving through Glendive on his way home after participating in a mountain bike race.  He would be able to bring it to us the next afternoon.

The Glendive Inn used to be nice, but is now probably a few weeks from closing.  There is just one young man on staff and he is reception, and housekeeping, and everything.  There are a few customers, but there are dirty towels in the hallway and doors open to unmade rooms.  The flustered young man explains that the day shift of housekeepers didn’t come in today, but if we can wait a few moments, he will make a room up for us.  He disappears, leaving the front desk without staff, much to the chagrin of a customer who is angry about his remote.  When I ask the desk clerk what’s happening, he tells me that the sprinkling system failed a while ago, and did hundreds of thousands of dollars of damage.  The owners can’t operate without a sprinkler system and have been told by the health department they have 90 days to repair.  The owner can’t get a loan to refurbish this older facility downtown (even though two new big motels are being built on the outskirts.)  The inn is limping by until….probable closing and even more damage to fabric of downtown.

We walk out to the café on the freeway where we will meet Andrew.  It is full of oil field workers and construction workers.   Even though Glendive is more than 100 miles from Williston and Sidney, it is full of young and old men, often in clumps of crews, hurriedly eating and not talking to anyone else.  I came of age in a boomtown and recognize the vibe.

We have a nice visit with Andrew Gilchrist, originally of Manchester, England, now of Marietta, Georgia and Red Lodge, MT.  He runs an eco-tourism business in Central and South America and is an avid cyclist.  We are agog to hear his story of organizing a yearly ride from Red Lodge to Jackson, WY—in ONE DAY.  This is a ride over the Bear Tooth and Sylvan Passes, through Yellowstone—a distance of 250 miles.  It takes them about 18 hours.  I ask if he is a masochist.  He just laughs.

We thank him hardily for the delivery of the tire and make our way back to our sad motel.  With a certain amount of trouble we get the tire on, then use the remaining time in Glendive to re-supply.  (Wes gets new underwear and socks.  Woot! I get new support knee socks.  Yay!)

The kindness of Jennifer and Andrew are just the beginning of this amazing tale….. To Be Continued…

 

posted from Moorhead, MN

T+65: Good Looking, Get Along People

Mile 1887. NEW SALEM, ND

The tale of our travels on the Hi-Line continues….

Our next stop is a little town called Saco, which everyone has warned us has the world’s worst mosquitos.  It is sitting on the clay basin of a former lake, which is flood irrigated with the waters of the Milk River.  This means that there are lots of places for water to sit and mosquitos to breed.  All throughout the hot ride to this town, I have been feeling nauseous.  I think it is an after effect of yesterday’s dehydration, so plug on.  Saco is a hot, dusty town of about 125 people.  Like so many of these Hi-Line towns, it has an abundance of 1910 buildings, empty and slowly decaying, reflecting the much higher population that lived here 100 years ago.  Most of these towns emptied out during dust bowl days, never regaining population or services.

There is one beat-up motel and a café, which is closed for repairs.  We drink a beer in the wonderful old bar while waiting for the motel owner to come in from the fields and rent us a room.  While there, we hear the first inkling of the transformation and tragedy that the boom on the Bakken Oil Field is bringing to eastern Montana and western North Dakota.  A young woman, celebrating her 30^th birthday, is talking loudly, ostensibly to the sympathetic female bartender, but also for everyone else to hear.  She has been working in the oil patch, making good money, but her three kids are living with various dads and grandmas.  She has not seen them in weeks.  She tells a horrifying story of the death of her young daughter last year.  The little girl was run over by her father, with whom she was already not speaking.   She circles back to the fight at the funeral over and over.   At least five times she says she is doing great, making $18/hr plus overtime.  She and her current partner, pick up two six packs every night just for the ride back home from the oil patch.  We get the heeby-jeebies at all of this.

The temperature is nearly 98 when the motel owner returns.  Camping is out of the question, so we take the pretty awful room.  This is definitely a room where we do not want to sleep in the bed, so we get our camping blankets out, and sleep on, not in the bed.  The little store in the town has a very small selection, so we make some frozen chicken strips (yuck) and a salad.

The next day, we are up early.  The sky is low, grey, and threatening.  I don’t feel well at all.  We want to get out of this town, so we decide to leave despite the skies.  Of course, about  2 miles out of town, as we cycle into a howling wind (which still does not deter these damned determined Saco mosquitos, who bite us while we are cycling), the rain begins to pelt.  It is 15 miles to the next town and there is nothing we can do.  We push on, miserable.

The only services in this little town is a convenience store, which we are glad to pop into.  The four guys sitting around a table, laughing and telling stories, look up as the bedraggled cyclists come in.  Wes goes over to get some hot coffee.  When he looks down at me, he exclaims, “Are you all right?”  I am not all right.  I am ill.  I have fever and chills; my stomach is upset.  I am shaking.  We drink coffee and look at the pouring rain.  I feel worse and worse. 

When the coffee klatch breaks up, I ask, “Are any of you going to Glasgow?  Could we pay you to give us a ride there.  I’m ill”  Wes looks shocked that I would take such a step, but one of the fellows says he driving back there, and sure, come on.  We load the bikes and BOBs in his pickup.  I climb in the back seat. Wes clambers in the front.  While I grow increasingly woozy, they visit about all manner of things. 

Dean works for the BLM as an engineer and knows the land around here very well.  He explains that this whole Milk River valley used to be the course of the Missouri River until an ice dam changed its course.  He talks to Wes about the economics of farming and tells us that is not such a risky venture these days, because farmers have federally subsidized crop insurance.  No matter what happens with their harvest, they will get paid.  He also tells a joke that Wes has delighted repeating. “How did the farmer double his income?  Answer: He put up another mail box.”  In other words, he established two businesses where there had been one and got two checks from the government.  This is also known as “farming the government.”

Dean drives us directly to the Cottonwood Inn. He refuses any offer of pay for the ride. It is beautiful and modern and well equipped.  I am not afraid of the bed here.  I go directly to it and sleep for two hours, then get up and have terrible digestive disorders.  As Wes and I talk it over, it seems to us that I have either picked up a mild case of West Nile virus from the mosquitos, or more likely, a bit of food poisoning from the undercooked sausage.  In between bouts, we wash clothes and get organized.

The next morning, I feel better, although still a little gurgly.  There is a sharp breeze blowing from the west (the long awaited tail wind!) We are back on Highway 2 and zooming along.  We stop at Elsie’s Café, and it is clear that this is quite the community gathering spot.  The waiter/co-owner is a former teacher.  He says, “My principal used to tell me what to do.  Now I just do what my wife tells me.”  She groans, “Oh, Arnie!” from the kitchen.   Little boys come in; old men speak to them by name and ask them about school starting.  Teenage girls come in and ask for ice cream for a party they are giving.   All across the dining people are chatting with each other, and with us.  The food is good and the energy is wonderful.  We don’t want to leave, but we must.

The heat starts to rise as we pedal on.  We are moving fast with the wind at our back, but getting hot.  We are now on the Fort Peck reservation.  We go into the Nakota Store and arrive at the exact moment the owners do.  The father and son duo make us smile.  The teenager has probably been awake about fifteen minutes.  He has thrown on the most comfortable, pajama like shorts and slides he can find.  He is exceptionally handsome, with a big broad smile, but pretty mumbled and unclear answers.  His father is wiry and energetic.  We buy two drinks each and stay in the cool to drink them.  The owner’s name is Tom Fire Moon, and he has managed stores all over: in the Navy, in San Diego, for Walmart, back and forth between Poplar, MT and California.  We find out he was on the same aircraft carrier as our brothers.  He tells us that his daughter was runner-up for Miss Montana, and that she won the talent competition singing a song from Les Miserables.  Tom tells us that they are Assiniboine and wants to make sure we know that Assiniboine are not Souix, with whom they share the reservation.   He makes us laugh, over and over, as we visit.  One time: we note that the calendar on his wall has a big picture of Mount Moran on it.  We say, “That’s where Wes was raised.”  Tom goes up to it, peers at it very closely, and pronounces, “Oh, I can see your house right there.”

All the while, various folks are coming in and out.  Some are getting gas.  One fellow says, “I’ll get some gas now, and when I get my check, I’ll bring you the money.”  No problem.  Another asks about our route.  He says, “You should take Indian Road #1.”He takes me to the window and shows me how to get on it.  “You’ll like it a lot more than Highway 2: no trucks, no traffic, much better scenery.”   Both he and Tom warn us about the upcoming dangers as we get closer and closer to the boom in Williston, ND.  This has now become a trope.

We take that route and he was right.  With the big tail wind, we careen down the highway, through little towns and big fields.  It is really fun and we travel the remaining 30 miles of that day in a flash. 

Wolf Point, MT is an odd town.  Full of oil traffic, yet also showing lots of signs of alcohol and meth problems, it has several banks, but no independent cafes that we can find.  We get the last room in the Sherman Inn.  It is full of oil patch workers and there are signs in the room about not using the washcloths to clean off grease.  The restaurant and bar are full of men of all ages and a variety of races.  This is not Elsie’s Café.  No one looks at or speaks beyond their table.

The next day, we leave the Hi-Line and begin our journey to the middle of North Dakota.  We cross the Missouri and have a long, arduous cross of the divide between the Missouri and Yellowstone River valleys.  There will be no services for 50 miles, just plenty of hills, miles of wheat, and a pretty stout side wind.

About half way, we stop in the shade of tree in front of the post office in Vida (no services, population 25).  We are drinking our water and about to eat our apple, when the postmaster comes out and says, “Come on in out of that heat.  You can sit here and drink some of this water right here.”

Her name is Lynette and she is the fill-in postmistress.  A former retail manager, she has taken this job in her retirement and has had postings all over this country.  Vida is a half-day post office and she will have to drive 60 miles to another post office on the Canadian border later today.  She spends the whole time cleaning the ornate oak panels of this post office while we visit.  We mention how friendly we have found people and what a hoot our visit at the Nakota store had been and she says, “I know Tom Fire Moon.  I used to run that store myself.  Did you know his daughter almost became Miss Montana.”   As in turns out, Lynette is also a member of the Assiniboine tribe.  When we say, we have heard much about that tribe, she laughs and says, “That’s because we are called the Good-looking, Get-along people.”  It certainly true in her case, with her long dark brown hair, golden skin, and blue eyes, and her busy, jokey and story-telling energy.  

It is hard to leave, but we must.  We thank her for her hospitality.  On the way to Circle, we think that is not just the Assiniboine who are get-along people and we wonder if it is the landscape or the culture or the economy….or all of the above… that have made folks so open, curious, and engaging.  We don’t know, but we sure do like it.

As we go down to Circle and enter the shadow of Williston, we face a lot of difficulties and see a lot of damage being done, but are we are astounded by incredible acts of grace…but that is story for another day….

 

Posted from Moorhead, MN