Fleeting Capture: 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.