Photo Gallery - Great Plains Ride

Over 1500 miles of riding in the great plains of Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota and Minnesota, it is most difficult to narrow the field of favorite pictures, but here they are.  Enjoy!

Caught in a spring snowstorm, and unable to put in our canoe
on the Upper Missouri, we instead walked Virgelle, MT - a ghost of a town.

A squall suddenly cleared to reveal the first sun of our trip on the 
Upper Missouri Breaks - setting as it was, a magical moment. 

Dark Butte Camp - emerging sun casts a warm light on the
amazing rock formations

Old US 87 from Billings to Hardin - empty of cars but not
headwinds or beauty

Little Bighorn Battlefield - a moving experience, with 
relief that the native perspective is represented

Lumps in the plain, on US212 in southeast Montana

A striking sunset at my wild campsite on Wyoming SR112, one
of the most scenic roads on the trip

The light!  I cannot just let it pass!  Wyoming ranch on SR112

I had to take multiple stops as the light kept changing the
face of Devil's Tower near Hulett - finally it was perfect.

Sunrise on Deerfield Lake in the Black Hills, South Dakota.
The delicacy of the vegetation set in a shimmering waterfield caught my eye.

A heart stopping moment on the Wilderness Drive in Custer State Park.
Completely surrounded by these magnificent buffalo.  Wilderness Drive
is a top ten riding circuit in my book!

The gradually emerging Badlands from Sage Creek Road.

The Badlands are simply magnificent and surreal. 
The subtle colors and textures caught my eye.

Low morning sun casts amazing shadows to reveal the textures.

Back to the Missouri River at Fort Thompson - the setting sun
casting interesting cloud shadows on the eastern sky.

And that same sunset - radiant!

I agree!  But the markers of accidents caught my attention in both
Montana and South Dakota.  The starkness of the four markers against a
darkening sky seemed most ominous.

And while not in the catalog of my best pictures, traded shots
with another tourist.  Included as many ask "what is it like?"
My loaded bike.  Now you know.

And at last, my route from Havre home - the great Great Plains journey!

Of Characters and Conversations

Ride solo, meet people.

It never fails that a solo bicycle rider, parking their typically overloaded rig anywhere there are other people, especially other cyclists, will invite conversation.  Those experiences make a trip interesting.  Consider these particularly memorable interactions on my recent Great Plains journey, three of many.

Greg 

It was a very long, hot day riding from Rapid City out to the literal ghost town of Scenic, South Dakota.  The ride is dominated by treeless rolling prairie cascading from the Black Hills to the west, on the southwest end of the Badlands.  It was hot, windy and waterless. I arrived midday hoping for something cold to whet my whistle as my maps indicated a Convenience store, but instead I thought I had rolled into a movie set.  Dilapidated buildings with old signs and bleached buffalo heads, tumbleweeds rolling about, even an old stone jail.  The roads in and out converged at a quiet intersection, with two gas pumps and a locked building as the only apparent signs of life. A truck with a trailer was pumping gas, and against the locked windowless building was the refrigerated oasis I was seeking - a vending machine!  This was likely the greatest single profit center in this entire village!

I walked to the machine as I started to source some bills.  I had a $1 and $5 bill, and it required $2.  Nuts! I engaged the driver pumping gas, hauling a trailer with a religious native symbol on it, soliciting change for a $5 bill.  Between he and his wife, from Oregon, they exchanged the currency I sought.  I would have settled for a few bills for my $5 - I was that thirsty. I thanked them profusely.

I fed my bills into the machine, and out sputtered a Diet Coke - argh!  I wanted regular for the sugar hit, but settled for a diet as it was cold and wet.  More importantly, this old, weathered machine in the middle of nowhere actually worked!

Across the street was an old building, long and narrow with a continuous covered porch - SHADE!!  I wheeled over to it and decided to seek its cover.  To my surprise, upon the porch were plastic Adirondack chairs, carefully spaced with a small table between, screwed down to the old wood deck.  It was as if someone had set this up precisely for travelers like me.  I settled into a chair, and ate my crackers and hard salami, sipped my cold Coke and water, and watched.

Though this was a ghost town, travelers did drive through, pausing at the pumps, looking for signs of life as I had, only to speed away, some knowingly stopping to fill with gas.  Amidst this activity, another cyclist appeared at the same vending machine, grabbed a beverage, and spotted me on this porch as I waved him over.  Heading east from Billings to Ohio on a different route than I, and also having left Rapid City, Greg, a sprinkler fitter from California and about my age, sought and appreciated the shade as much as I, and we spent the next hour chatting about bicycling, life, routes, gear - all the stuff you expect two bicyclists would chat about.  We concluded this made-in-the-shade porch with accommodating chairs on an otherwise abandoned building was the work of a church group that apparently had invested in this town.  It was pure welcoming genius!

As we chatted, he wished someone would stop from whom he could finagle a Powerade. Lo and behold, a large white suburban pulled up a few minutes later, having seen the two loaded bikes parked along the building.  A gentlemen rolled his window down and started asking about our trip, where we were headed, all with genuine interest.  And he had a Powerade in his cooler!  A wish fulfilled!

One final problem - water - as it is very scarce along this stretch and throughout the Badlands.  We walked around the back of this building, and spotted a hydrant.  Pulling on the lever, we heard a gurgling sound for a few seconds, as the pipes started to fill, and out gushed some very cold water!  Like little boys, we gleefully danced around this hydrant soaking our clothing to cool off.

I was heading north into the Badlands, Greg was heading east toward Interior. We finally took our leave.  Empty was the town of life and hubbub, but a visit full of surprise!

Crazy Mike

I continued north on dusty gravel roads for about 15 miles, entering the southwest side of the Badlands on the gravel Sage Creek Rim Road, headed for the primitive, waterless Sage Creek Campground.  I arrived to this wide open, treeless flats with a single circular loop, around which vehicles parked and camped inside the loop.  From the bluffs above, it looked very much like a teepee circle, or a circle of pioneer wagons out of some old western film.  I found a spot with a table and a wind shelter inboard and claimed ownership for the evening.  Nearby, a man was sitting quite motionless in his camp chair, looking east.  Probably napping, I thought, as I was also wont to do. 

Much later, after having pitched my tent, taken an exploratory walk in along the Sage Creek coulee and started my dinner, Mike got up from his chair and walked slowly to my site and just started chatting.  From Wisconsin, 71 years old and retired, I supposed he speculated I was a solid chat prospect with my white hair and beard. Most of the other campers were younger folks with tents (no RV's allowed at this site).  Perched on the table and hanging onto the posts of the shelter, we chatted for at least an hour. 

"I've killed two men." 

This caught me off guard, naturally, but my reaction was forced to display calm.  Mike was a Vietnan vet, dishonorably discharged after 6 years as a Sergeant, suffering from PTSD.  Carefully inquiring of the circumstances of this remark, he indicated he had shot another soldier in his platoon that was supposed to guard the unit derelict in his responsibility.  He warned him that if he didn't shape up immediately, Mike would shoot him, for it was either "I shoot you or the enemy shoots us!"  Disobedient, the guard was shot and killed.  Mike was discharged after a court martial and stripped of his benefits, though he had aspirations of a career in the military. But he admitted to being "a bit crazy in the head".

The second episode involved another man pulling a gun on him in a junkyard that Mike had entered to ask for directions.  A shout-down and scuffle of some sort ensued and Mike shot the man.  He was acquitted under self-defense, but spent time in jail.  The rest of his life was spent quietly in Wisconsin with his wife, working for a company building fiberglass enclosures for trucks until it was bought out by a large eastern firm and he was laid off.  He just retired after that.

"What brings you to Sage Creek?"

He was here in the 1980's when the area was less improved than it is today.  He was alone here, in this blissful paradise, and decided to return to relive the experience.  He grumbled at all the people, that it wasn't the same place he remembered.

"But look at it this way: these are mostly young folks.  Tents are all they can afford, like perhaps you in the 1980's.  And it brings them out to appreciate this immense beauty, and hopefully carry on with its preservation."   He grudgingly agreed.

I did not know what to believe of his story, but knew just to listen.  I sensed that Mike was cloaked in a blanket of regret and deep sadness, but also repentance, and genuinely appreciated just being able to talk to someone else about his life and trajectory, someone who would listen, who perhaps could relate to his story.  I was there, could embrace the opportunity, and realized that age matters in this situation, for his admission of homicide would likely have scared off the younger campers.  

We parted the next morning, wishing each other a good journey.

Jason and Seth  

Bruce is not a person but a place - a small town north of Brookings, South Dakota - off route a mile where it was hoped, after a long morning ride from DeSmet, one could stop in any of three tavern/restaurant establishments indicated on Googlemaps for something cold to drink, a spot of lunch and the relief of shade.  

I rolled a back-road into town, and followed my instincts into the center of town - the wide main street area.  The first place I spotted was Jay Street Pub, in front of which a man with a long mane and a bandana cap was unlocking the door, his young son beside him after getting out of a golf cart.  I rolled up, thinking they might be customers, but with no beer or "open": signs on in the window.

"Is this place open?" I asked.

Expressionless, he replied "No, but you can come in."

With token resistance to validate both the sincerity and the security of the invitation, I sensed an opportunity of engagement and accepted. Built in 1910, the exterior was a bit run down, the interior dark but for the glow of a few backroom lights and the sign headers on the beer coolers behind the bar, revealing a gloomy, time-worn interior with a few tables and a pool table.  I took a seat at the corner of the bar, while thanking him for the opportunity to cool off in the welcome shade of a darkened bar.

Seth took a seat next to me while his father, Jason (as i will call him) tinkered a bit in the backroom. He offered and I accepted a Coke (full sugar!).  Eight years old, he was done with school for the year (third grade) but regretfully admitted the need for summer school as he did not do so well in homeschooling. His favorite class was "computers" and his worst "math".  We talked about school and home life until his Dad reappeared behind the bar.

Over my leftover pizza and the Coke, we chatted about the bar business in tiny Bruce, South Dakota, and how he came to acquire it.  Jason was careful not to slam the competition, but over the course of 30 minutes recited the intrigue of a new bar competitor and restaurant in town, and how it came to be out of business so quickly. With all the drama of a high flying merger and acquisition story, an offer from the competition to join up (declined) and his collective wisdom of 10 years owning the business after a layoff from a solid career in wind turbine maintenance, Jason was cool, almost complacent about his circumstances and the bar.  He identifies the need to make physical improvements,  but held off with strategic caution due to the downturn from COVID.  

He owns the bar free and clear, bought it well, is profitable and proud.  This could have been  a lesson for any business management student - it had all the ingredients.

His vision for the future: for his two kids to be able to work here as he watched Seth deftly serve another Coke and fill my water bottles with ice, and for the business to be able to have another employee/manager to allow him to move back into another job.  He tells this with a fatherly gleam in his eye for Seth.

Time to go.  "How much for the Coke?"

"Two dollars."

I handed Seth $10 while telling Jason "$2 for the Coke, and $8 to Seth for doing all the work!"  

That was $10 well spent - the advantages of a solo journey, revealed in the cool shade of a darkened bar, a guest of the proud Owner.

Prairie Signs

Bicycling through the heart of the American prairie, I noted two distinct yet connected attributes: big skies that necessarily yield wide horizons.  The prairie terrain is at times unforgiving, arduous when combined with a disadvantageous wind, and possessing much more elevation gain than one expects in the "flats".  In other words, it can be tiring!

The result:  one constantly scans that wide horizon for distant signs of life.  A town. A place to rest.  Get a cold drink.  Engage in an unexpected way with the locals.  And perhaps most of all, a momentary relief from the beautiful monotony of the landscape.

But where are they?  How far am I?  What is that town like - what does it hold for me?  And you peddle onward in hope of that place.

The roads with big sky and wide horizon in Montana, Wyoming and much of western South Dakota that I travelled revealed no secrets as to how far a town was.  They could not be seen.  Frequently, they consist of a scattering of dwellings or structures clustered low along a creek, not visible from afar as they are shielded by the low, rolling ridges of the plains.

It wasn't until Fort Thompson, and more precisely the village of Stephan on the Crow Creek Reservation in South Dakota, that it occurred to me.  The one sign that a town was in the achievable distance, triggering a slightly quickened pace on the pedals:

The water tower.

There it was, sitting like a large golf ball on a tee many miles out of town, visible as a distinct profile that some settlement required a water tower.  If there is a tower, there must be a town.  Farther west, water tanks would be placed on a higher bluff from the town, and not free standing as the typical midwestern water towers are.  They didn't need a tower for its sole purpose is less about storage and more about maintaining water pressure on the system.

Where I reside, water towers are necessarily all over the place - we take them for granted. But on this road trip, I had not, until seeing the Stephan tower, realized the symbolism they represent to a traveler.  They are a sign of life, of a vital community that can afford "city water"!

How diverse they are.  I sought out water towers to see how they are connected to the town.  In the "back" somewhere? In the city park? Even outside of town? To this latter point, I noted several rural water systems covering miles of farmland not specifically attached to a village.  In a way that is sad, because the water tower symbolizes the pride of the community, offering up "Home of the . . ." labels below the certainty of a name for the city or town.  It is both literally and figuratively a sign.  Suddenly, I was taking note of them, how varied they were, and how central they were to the community they serve.

But there is yet another sign: the grain terminal.

Most of these small towns evolved from the railroad boom of the mid-to-late 1800's. Farmers needed ways to store their grain until it could be loaded onto a train for market.    The railroad, touching many of these small towns is long gone, now strategically selective in the towns it touches.  Trucks have taken over moving grain more easily to a distant market when it was most opportune to sell it. Thus, some terminals become hulking derelicts within the community, a hopeless beacon from a more vibrant time, the train whistles long silent. 

Yet those other terminals with rail are expanding apace, itself another sign of rural prosperity

The hulking mass of these silos is also a distant sign of life - present or past, one does not quite know.  Yet even this is going away as farmers choose, understandably, to hold their grain in bins until the market presents its best opportunity to sell, then truck them to market.  All shiny, these new bins do not point the way to a town, but just to some hoped for prosperity when the price is right - this year or next. 

The water tower and the grain bin in the prairie - beacons of rural hope and repast for the approaching cyclist, yet miles distant.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

A SoDak Moment: Three Towns

 

I’ve never thought too much about South Dakota (SoDak) – not in a bad way, as it was always “just there”, a State to pass through on a car where every mile looks the same.  Indeed, I think there are actually two SoDak’s: the Black Hills/Badlands, and everything else, where “everything else” is what everyone passes through to get somewhere else, even to the Badlands/Black Hills and points beyond.

It has been useful to see SoDak mile-by-mile to get a better sense of the place.  I was pleasantly surprised.  Three towns on my slow crossing by bicycle deserve special mention, along with the abundance of friendly people, and the subtle beauty of the prairie.

Midland

While not quite in the middle of SoDak, it could be considered in the middle of nowhere.  I was riding from Interior, just south of the Badlands National Park, anxious to avoid the grueling headwinds of the day before, and having less sleep due to a bone rattling, tent bending, wind/rain/thunderstorm. My “Little Agnes” tent survived, but my two neighbors were not so lucky, resorting to their cars to spend an uncomfortable night.

My last look of the Badlands was grinding up Cedar Pass northward out of the Park, into the rolling plains I have become familiar with.  The storm blew out the hot weather in favor of cool morning temperatures, but the wind persisted from due west.  

Travelling north, I stopped at the Minuteman Missile Museum, itself out in the middle of nowhere at a non-descript exit off the Interstate Highway 90.  But it was filled with mostly older visitors, and stirred some long latent memories of the Cold War era in our history, especially practicing air raid drills in elementary school.  The missile system was quite a network of underground silos across North and South Dakota, and Montana. Why?  As the silos were themselves a target, locating them in the middle of nowhere reduces collateral damage.  And the upper Midwest plains represented a shorter travel distance across the north pole to the former USSR.  Quite a sobering visit to learn more about this part of our history. But there really was no town attached to this place.

I continued north, into the “nowhere” on a gravel road for 22 miles, rolling up and down every creek draw.  I was passed by exactly 1 pickup truck the entire time, and enjoyed experiencing the treeless plains, the surprising abundance of birdsong from the prairie cover, and riding through the Buffalo Gap National Grasslands.  The beauty, in all its austerity, was sublime.  

Connecting to US14, I now had a nearly perfect tailwind, and arrived quickly in the town of Midland.  A railroad town, there seemed very little “alive” in town;  it seemed at first impression quite a ghost town, but was actually very quietly alive.  All the streets were gravel except the two main roads.  There was a hardware store, a convenience store, a closed-up restaurant, a granary/seed store, and the Midland Pioneer Museum opposite a central square park.  And there was the Stroppel Hotel and Mineral Bath.

This intrigued me.  I had made a reservation – an email to its new owner Laurie Cox was adequate.  The structure was originally known in the late 1880’s as the Bastion Hotel – a vintage hotel so common in these railroad towns located adjacent the tracks.  In 1907, it was moved two blocks across the tracks with a team of 59 horses (and holding up a train!). 

In 1939, the new Owner, George Stroppel, dug a 1,780 foot deep well to tap the 115 degree mineral waters and piped them directly into the hotel (the well was deepened many years later and yielded its present 119 degrees).  George wanted full therapeutic healing, and not just the baths.  A chiropractor he retained turned out to have a drinking problem, so George learned massage, which continues to this day.  It is a really old-time spa in the modern sense of the word.

There are three “plunging baths” within the hotel – hot, hotter, hottest – depending on how much ventilation you need to simply breathe.  Now the hotel itself is “well lived-in” and resembles more of a hostel, with a kitchen and community rooms available for patrons.  The rooms are quaint, simple and well attended to.  The porch on the second floor affords a view to the railroad tracks a block away – and keen proximity to their whistles as they pass through. 

After about 60 miles of riding that day, the “plunge” felt great – in just the “hot” bath.  Totally worth the visit and a step back into history.

But as evening approached, there was only one option for dinner – the convenience store had a tiny grill within it that I visited.  I took a seat at one of three tables, leaving the counter for the locals – all older locals.  It wasn’t too long that I was engaged in a conversation with a couple of ranchers, one 66 and the other 81. Over my ice-cold beer, I learned a bit about their current woes: who has to sell cattle because of the drought, who had to cut wheat for hay (before the wheat flowers as the seeds will choke cattle) since hay is still fetching a good price, and that one of these large round bales of hay can last 10 years!

Midland is worth the visit and perfect for bicyclists on the Adventure Cycling Parks, Peaks and Prairies route.  On my way out the next morning, I stopped at the C-store for some chocolate milk for “down the road” and the 81 year old rancher was there, took my hand, and wished for me safe travels.    

 

Wessington Springs

I was supposed to get to Huron – a long days ride of some 80+ miles.  But the hot winds had other ideas.  The rolling upland prairie, a continuous treeless yet beautiful grassland, had nothing to stop the wind from sending me westward. Towns were quite far apart, and for this stretch the one town on my map that was within striking distance for a break was Wessington Springs.

And ice cream

According to Google Maps, there was an ice cream shop in town.  That will be enough to keep any cyclist going.  The thought of a cool, refreshing, protein and sugar laced milk shake keeps the pedals rotating.   After finally cresting what seemed an interminable number of “rolls”, I was startled to find myself at the crest of a ridge, looking across a wide expanse of flatness that lay before me as far as the eye could see.  This ridge running north and south hosted the first windfarm I have seen on this trip, and also represents a geographical shift in the landscape, the dividing point between the Coteau de Missouri (central SoDak) and the eastern plains, the Coteau des Prairies.  Basically, prehistoric seas were deeper where it is flatter, and shallower where the prairie undulates, and as it drained, it left this long ridge.

Wessington Springs is situated on the side of this Paleozoic embankment, so I simply rolled downhill into town and located the ice cream shop, strategically placed across the street from the City Park. 

“Is there camping allowed in the City Park?’

The answer was yes, the afternoon was still a bit early – 3:00 – and there was still another 40 miles to go to Huron.  But there was also this curious attraction: the Shakespeare Garden and the Anne Hathaway Cottage.

Go or stay?

The stars were seemingly aligned in favor of staying, primarily because to make Huron on a day like today would have put me in quite late, and I would have missed this opportunity to see the garden and cottage, and possibly harbor regrets thereafter.

I stayed – milk shakes have this tendency to reduce one’s mind to complacency.  The campsites were primarily 5 RV sites lined up in the blazing sun, and a small, level spot beneath a grove of trees that beckoned a tent.  And, there was a community pool, a shower facility set amongst the open space, courts and a ball field.  This was perfect.

I set up my tent and hopped on my bike for the garden.  Little Leaguers were starting to gather at the ball field.  Hungry though, I showered up and went to the local restaurant – the only sit-down customer ordering some pretty good fried chicken.  After, I took a $3.00 dip in a very cool pool while listening the the ball game being announced.  As daylight shifted to evening, the field lights came on and the game continued, with the loudspeaker blaring all manner of progress,

This was a great scene of personal contentment, nested in my tree grove, walkers strolling by waving or chatting.  This was Americana – a sense of community that even brought outsiders to live here.

I would have missed this blindly following my schedule.   

 

DeSmet

I was intrigued by the published moniker: ”The little town on the prairie”.

What I am referring to is the family legacy of Laura Ingalls Wilder; to especially male readers not in the know, the famous author of the Little House on the Prairie series.  Some of us older folks even remember Pa as Michael Landon in the TV series of the same name, the town so called as its claim to fame proudly hosts the house that Pa built, the kitchen cabinets of which are his original, unaltered handiwork. 

Laura actually never lived there – she had already married and moved to their claim, but she cites many of the commercial establishments in her books.  These establishments are tagged to the buildings when walking around town, making for an interesting blend of fact tagged to quotations from Laura’s books.

I wasn’t even planning on visiting DeSmet, but in the heat of the long day peddling, fighting yet another quartering headwind, I needed an option for camping or a motel, and this was relatively close to my intended route.  Perhaps (again) influenced by the milk shake I consumed while pondering my sleeping options, I decided on trying a bed and breakfast option for a change of pace.  They are great ways to learn more about the town and its culture and character. I stopped at one that looked classically homey with a broad porch, but after two attempts, no one either answered the door or the telephone. I gave up.

I then tried a hotel, first by phone rolling to a message machine, then in person at the site, but the sign on the office door said they would be back at 6:30 – so no one to check me in until then?  Quite odd.

I then called the Heritage House B&B, “downtown”, but also no answer.  This place intrigued me as it was housed in an old Bank building, and as an architecture buff, I thought that would be cool, and likely unaffordable as many B&B’s are.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS TOWN?  NO ONE ANSWERS THE CALL!

I then wandered up to the Heritage and tried the door.  Locked.  As I wandered away, the door opened and Ms. Kim Ernst called out “can I help you?”

With a cavernous living room with old tin ceilings, an old Diebold vault door, and a room that may have been taller than it was wide, this was a classy restoration.  And surprisingly affordable.

I stayed.  I walked the town, got a sense of the place.  It has a great vibe to me, seemed vibrant and alive.  And Pa’s place stands unassumingly amidst other houses on the street. Without that particular knowledge of its unique origin, its history would be lost, the house just like so many others in small Midwest towns.  The house was closed, but it and the Bank building, the very wide Main Street (to turn horse drawn wagons around), and a marvelous county courthouse took me back in time.  The only thing this town should do is restore their old street facades to their original architecture, as close to Laura’s time as possible, and eliminate some poor 1960 era “restorations” that do the street no justice.  This would solidly complete the vision a visitor draws.  What if the Loftus Store cited in the books actually looked like it did?

I couldn’t help thinking about Laura and her younger sister Carrie running in a prairie field as Hollywood made it up to be. There is nothing wrong with this town either.  It is just an uncomplicated, simple existence.

I too, rolled in these prairies.

 

 

The $75 Ride

 

"What lies ahead" can excite the senses but also bring with it a potential for high anxiety.

Montana has some very long and isolated roadways, where alternative routing is just not possible.  One such stretch, from Broadhus to Alzada, is 59 miles with nothing between but the southeastern Montana rolling plains.  Indeed, there are two small towns (Boyes and Hammond), each with a tiny post office on US 212, but on Memorial Day as I passed through them, they appeared as boarded up as ghost towns with no services.*  

In Broadus, I harbored a major anxiety: a long distance with no water, persistent, brutal headwinds, and the potential for a narrow or no shoulder on US212, where trucks seem to predominate the vehicular landscape.  And perhaps that is why I did not sleep so well.  But there are no other options.  

"Just go and hope for the best" says the mind.  

Why then the anxieties?  It seems well known that our own minds create the greatest obstacles to bicycle touring.  Our minds can trick us, lie to us, drive us, support us, let us down.  Even let us crumble and fall, both before and whilst on a ride.  

I was particularly worried about this stretch.  It turned out better than expected.  Indeed, there was an early sign of a headwind, but it posed no undue hardship.  There was a nice shoulder, until it disappeared completely, though with a low level of truck traffic on this day requiring only a handful of times I walked off the roadway to let two opposing trucks pass.  The heat was manageable, though there was no natural shade.  In spite of that, I did find the one spot of shade along this barren landscape to enjoy my lunch and a short powernap.  It seemed that I was clicking through the 59 miles at a reasonable pace, knowing there was a convenience store in Alzada, propelling me forward to a cold drink or treat of some sort. 

The only shade on way to Alzada - a telephone shack!

There! My mind set my anxieties in motion for naught.  I arrived Alzada around 3:30 in the afternoon, and lingered a bit deciding whether to camp here for the night, or to push on another 10 miles southward into Wyoming on a more rural road, and cut down the distance to traverse the next day to Sundance - my next planned spot.

I headed south and soon crossed into far northeastern Wyoming on SR112 - a no shoulder, low traffic, rural roller coaster of a road with enough short late afternoon climbs to tax my legs, but also to bring me higher into pine tree  and high plateau ranch territory.  This was simply a beautiful stretch of road - again I expected more challenges - traffic, shoulder, headwinds - and they did not materialize.  

Next anxiety: where to camp, for I was certainly not going to make the mileage to Hulett, the next town, that evening.  The only option is to "wild camp" - finding a spot alongside the road that is innocuous enough to cause no bother to anyone.  Wild camping brings a fairly high level of anxiety all on its own - do I need to trespass?  Hide myself?  Do I have enough water?  Food? And the biggest one of all - is that a good spot? Or: Is there something better down the line?

Soon the forest cover that can be such an advantage disappeared into a high rolling grassy plain, the two lane road nestled between ranch boundary fence lines (probably the Federal standard 120' wide right of way).  So, could I just plant myself along a fence line adjacent a pathway into a farm field?

The high plateau range on WY SR112 - note the wide easement with
no place to "hide" when camping

While all this churning is going on, I was getting more tired by the minute rolling up and down these perpetual little hills. One such hill loomed in the distance, the bottom of which had just such a dirt drive lane into a gated field of cattle.

I was done.  Right then and there.  Stopped cold in the road, bravely wiping away any anxiety, deciding this is where I will wild camp tonight.  More churn: what if someone stops and tells me to move on?  I wasn't trespassing - I was in the right of way!  There is so little traffic with dusk approaching, will anyone even care?  Even stop? They are welcome to do so, even just to talk.

This camp proved to be well-positioned, wide open, and nobody cared. Got more waves, and no one stopped, even when a vehicle slowed [a momentary anxiety - will they?] to enter the ranch driveway across the road from my camp [relief - but they could have stopped!].  This would be OK, I thought, and settled in to enjoy a spectacular sunset from my easy camp-chair I brought along, and an unbelievable array of stars before some clouds rolled in to splatter my camp with a few raindrops.

Hard to imagine a better campsite - wild by the
side of the road! With chair to watch!

Maybe, I should just refer to it as "un-wild camp" to ease my anxiety.

I broke camp early and continued on a cool, crystal clear morning along Highway 112 to Hulett   This road was spectacular!  The scenery, the minimal traffic with a fabulous descent into Hulett where I had a second breakfast. I rolled toward Sundance with the notion of stopping by Devil's Tower along the way, however I was left to view it without actually visiting it, for the line of cars to get into Devil's Tower was too long, and I was afforded great views and could supplement my geologic and cultural interests with just a bit of internet research.  

There is some kind of magic in Devil's Tower

Devil's Tower is a magnificent edifice, and held me in wonder for miles as it was in my sights.  Legend has it that a great Bear chased seven little girls onto a rock, which as the bear approached, rose up toward the sky to protect the girls. The bear tried to climb the rock but left only claw marks on the side of the rock.  The girls were safe, transported to the sky and are still together as the constellation Pleiades.

That evening, in Sundance, I located a small room in the Arrowhead Motel - a well cared for throwback to the earlier age of the motor motel.  I rested, cleaned up, and headed to the Longhorn Saloon and Grill, filled with a new anxiety.  I was headed the next day into the Black Hills, on gravel roads of unknown quality for a loaded bicycle, with a likelihood of significant climbing.  Over a cold beer at my table, I hatched another plan to assuage my anxiety:

"I am on a bicycle tour heading into the Black Hills.  Do you know of anyone that would be willing to drive my bags up to Whitetail Campground on Deerfield Lake tomorrow? I am willing to pay something"  

I casually asked this question of a certain Janessa Wilen rolling silverware into napkins behind me, to which she replied "I cannot. I work tomorrow [mind let down - no hope] but [sign of hope, mind excites!!] perhaps my sister would do it.  Our parents are up there now anyway." [Oh! this is perfect - mind giddy!]  Tearing a page from my journal, I scribbled all pertinent information except the one anxiety breaker: "let me know if she can't".   I didn't even get Janessa's contact info!  Nuts!

Made sure my phone was on, checking it regularly for messages.  Went about my evening business not knowing how tomorrow would proceed [anxiety meter rising].  Have faith! 

At 9:45 a text arrived: "Hi this is Ashley Wilen I heard about you needing someone to bring your bags up to Deerfield tomorrow and I would be interested."  [switch to giddy again!]

Several text messages and a phone call, an agreement of $75 for expenses, time and trouble, the pick-up was awaiting Ashley in the hotel lobby as I had departed on SR585 to Four Corners.  Another unexpectedly stunning run along verdant Wyoming prairie with the Black Hills getting closer and closer - this area known as the Wyoming Black Hills - the western front.

On the road to Four Corners - note Devils Tower
in the distance

The Wyoming Black Hills near Four Corners

The gravel road to  Deerfield Lake

The almost hidden welcome to South Dakota

In Four Corners, the gravel road started to climb gradually, satisfying my decision to have Ms. Wilen ease the burden on my legs and my mind, as the gravel was a bit bumpy and loose.  Climb I did, but almost effortlessly before I found myself in a long descent to Deerfield Lake, arriving around 3:00 at the campground.  I walked up to the campground host, who on first appearances seemed gruff, and answered "no" to having had someone drop bags off for me.  [anxiety on high alert]

"But it's possible they were dropped at the next campground 3 miles south.  Hop in the truck"

Roger Schlader is 81 years old now and a long-time, hard-of-hearing host who really just wanted to help me out, and not grudgingly because of my seemingly hard luck situation. He would help any camper, but with a twinkle in his eye noted I would owe him one!  Long conversation ensued about his history minding these camps, and we shortly sourced the delivery to Max Wilen's RV, indeed at the next campground.

[Anxiety now fully at rest]

"Just go and hope for the best" says the mind.

 

My leg-savior Ashley Wilen with my bags.
We never met in person, only virtually

The immense beauty which is the western portion
 of the Black Hills.  Quiet. Sparse. Untouristed.

* See the Montana Memories for the one particular two seated outhouse as part of the travelers rest!