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+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

 

T+56: Harvest on the Hi-Line, Part 1

Mile 1523, SACO, MT

We have been traveling along US Highway 2 since leaving East Glacier.  It is commonly called the Hi-line, as is it the most northern national highway.  It has been quite an interesting experience, with plenty of surprises, and a new slice of American culture for us.

Our first stop after East Glacier was Browning, MT.  We had visited Browning in the early 90’s and were shocked by the poverty and abandonment at this Blackfeet tribal headquarters.  We had been concerned about it and organized our current route so as not to spend the night there.  Boy, were we wrong.   First of all, the town is about 3 times bigger than it was 20 years ago.  There is a big casino, a big museum of tribal culture.  There are many new businesses, including some sort of heavy equipment supplier on the south side of town.  The beat-up little “agency” houses, that dominated the town 20 years ago were nowhere to be seen in the Browning of 2013.  We had a nice breakfast and were waited on by a group of teenagers who looked up from their I-phones when we came in, then couldn’t believe we were from Detroit and traveling Montana by bike.  It was lovely…a good surprise.

We ride for miles through the Blackfeet reservation, seeing so many birds of prey and hundreds of horses…certainly more horses than we have seen anywhere else.  We plug along, committed to making 50 mile days in this part of the country.  The country is high and dry.  We are looking forward to Cutbank, which we envision as a river town.  As we get close, we go down a big hill, cross a desert river with high arroyo banks, then have to climb 300 feet in less than a mile to get to the town up on the bluff.  The riverside camping we had been anticipating should have been named Cliffside Camping: no trees, in the gravel, on a cliff 100 feet above the desert stream.  We end up staying at the Super 8…and it was great.  We walk over to the little mall and get a smoothie.  The mall is full of families doing “Back to School” shopping.  The people there are a mix of European- and Native- Americans.  There is a lot of teasing and laughing.  It seems pretty comfortable and easy.

After Cutbank, we enter the never-ending wheat fields of the Marias plateau.  All along the highway, we are passed by huge harvesting equipment.  There are massive cutters, and threshers, and giant vacuums.   In one field, we count 2 belly dump semi-trucks, two sixteen wheel trucks, a thresher whose arms extended at least 20 feet on each side, and three other huge pieces of machinery.   We could not even imagine how many hundreds of thousands of dollars all this equipment cost. 

We had hoped to make it to Chester, MT (pop. 847) that day, but by the time we had gone 50 miles, we were out of water, out of energy, and hot.  Our map told of a little motel in a Galada, MT (pop. 50).  We found the motel; it looked closed, but did have a working pop machine.  We only had enough change for one drink.  There was an equipment service shop/gas station next to it.  Maybe they could give change for a five dollar bill.  The operator was on the phone and stayed on the phone the whole time we were there. 

The store had a bit of junk food, some drinks, and a scad of magazines thrown about a big messy table.  While the operator still talked on the phone, another man comes in, sees us waiting for service, and asks if we need a place to stay that night.  We mumble something about making it to Chester, but we were pretty tired already.  He says, “You have come to the right spot!  I own the motel next door.  Let me call the wife and she can come get you set up.” 

We decide, “what the hell?” While we’re waiting for the wife, we find out we can buy a frozen Schwan’s pizza from the guy on the phone.   After about 15 minutes, the wife comes in, flustered as she had been called in from the field where she was working on the harvesting crew.  She shows us the first room, all the while apologizing, saying that the phone was off because they had been working on the road and she hadn’t had hardly any business this summer.  The first room smelt kind of musty, so she opened the second door in the motel of 9 units.  It was like visiting an apartment from 1962.  It had two bedrooms with wooden western furniture, televisions with rabbit ears antennas and a small kitchen with a tiny stove, formica table, and vinyl chairs.  We loved it.

I went to turn on the water.  Nothing.  I tell the wife, who calls her husband, who calls his son, all of whom now have left the fields to come deal with “this motel mess”.  There is a big ruckus while they figure out what happened to the 9000 gallons in the cistern, which is completely dry.  The pump is on and very close to burning out.  It takes another 30 minutes during which Wes and I snooze on the bed.  We still have not registered; we have no idea what the price will be.  Finally, they get the pump primed, and a hose from the well re-filling the cistern.  I turn on the water.  After spurting and spitting, it comes out…brown.  The wife apologizes again, and goes to get us some bottle water to drink.

As it turns out, the wife is a school teacher.   The motel is definitely a side business for this wheat farmer/equipment supplier/teacher family.  It sounds like she has not had guests in this motel since early July.  She says, “I know it had water two weeks ago ‘cause the grandkids used the toilet.”   Finally, all the systems are working again.  She apologizes again for the delays and confusion.  She and Wes get into teacher talk.  At the end of all that, they decide to charge us $25 for the room. 

They all disappear, presumably back to the fields.  Wes and I are alone in the motel.   There is no phone; the TV picks up two channels, the water is not safe for drinking, and we have a really great night.  We sit in the little kitchen and talk about my dad.  He would have loved this little motel and we could easily imagine him sitting at this little table drinking coffee.

The next morning, over hill and dale, still surrounded by miles and miles of wheat, we make it to the little town on  Chester.  The landscape is so undulating, that we can see the water tower for the town sporadically for 8 miles.

Chester is the prototypical Hi-Line town.  Dominated by its grain elevator and train tracks, a small cluster of  businesses cluster around these two central features.   We find Spud's  Café and when we look into the window, it feels like we are entering  a photograph.  There is one young blonde waitress standing at the counter, leaning over, reading the  paper.  There is one customer, sitting alone at a table. 

As it turns out, he is a bit of a character.  He engages us immediately, asking us about our trip and telling us about the area.  His hair is faded red, and cut into an epic mullet.  The front hair is curly and somewhat spikey; the back hangs down past his shoulders.  He is on oxygen and is quite frail, with remarkably loose skin, and knobby knees poking out of his hanging shorts.  He looks like someone who lost much of his body weight very rapidly.  He says, while pulling on his oxygen tube, "Guess I won't be cycling too far anywhere soon."  He also tells us how to tell the hard winter wheat from the spring wheat---the hard winter wheat is more red and grows more in the valleys.  The farmers are cutting it and will turn over the ground to start the next crop.  The spring wheat is still green and won't cut for a few more days.

We are happy to learn this, because we are agog at millions of acres of wheat we are passing.  Both Wes and I thought northern Montana would be more desert-ish.  We are completely wrong.  It is mainstay of the US's breadbasket. 

This fragile gentlemen and the young waitress are the first installment of what will soon be a type...very friendly, curious, and talkative townsfolk.  All along the Hi-line, folks stop us on street, in the grocery store, at cafes, and ask us about our travels.  There are often little self-effacing jokes and always a wish for our safe and enjoyable travels.  

 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Posted from Circle, MT