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! 

Montana Impressions

Googlemaps does not do a general survey of Montana’s landscape justice. The wonderful thing of Googlemaps is the ability to trace your route mile by mile if you want. It seems that Montana should be mostly flat, right? Sure, the mountains do not count, but much of Montana is plains. Plains implies more or less flat, and not more less-flat! I have spent that past 430 miles or so prepared to refute any claim to flatness. But along the way, some observations also took hold, which I now share: 

The Golden Triangle 

I was grinding away on a terrible gravel road out of the Bear Paw Mountains to Big Sandy, walking my bike because the gravel was like ball bearings and I was afraid of falling over at the end of a long day. Rusty, a rancher stopped and offered me a ride, which turned out to be a mile until paved road again. But in the 3 miles to Big Sandy that I effectively gave up on, he told me about his ranching and the benefit of being in the Golden Triangle. No, this is not an old freemason secret society. It is the triangular area of fertile farming land between Shelby, Great Falls and Havre that produces wheat, barley and other crops, effectively a bread and beer basket. So much so that one Great Falls brewer, Jeremiah Johnson Brewing Company, proudly posts this fact on their bottles, the contents of which, cold and refreshing, did seem to bear Rusty out. 

Cowboys Need Horses . . . and Cows (or maybe an ATV?) 

I cannot say for certain of the ATV has effectively replaced the horse for ranching purposes. But Montana does pride itself on the horse and the cowboy, and posts monuments to their champion bronco busters in many of the small towns I passed through. Nevertheless, grind through the ranch country, horses would often see me riding, likely wonder what this kind of a creature is, and trot toward the fence along the road to observe me. We chatted, horse talk you know. They seemed agreeable to let me pass, glad they don’t make bicycles for horses to use. Cows, always glancing my way, looking kind of glum, just stood and watched, with a few herds taking to trotting away from me as quickly as they could. Hard to think of them as future steak, these docile beasts. 

Indian Country 

I spent quite a bit of time in high school reading and studying up on the Indian way of life – I am not certain what is the best descriptor, but I use the term Indian with honor. As I was pedaling along the grassy plains, I was imagining a time when there were no barbed wire fences, where encampments were strategically located to serve their nomadic life. With this, and the dark history of our treatment of the Indian and their relegation to reservations, I am always curious to ride through the reservations. I can see their reverence for the land, for the animals, for the lore of their ancestors. What I do not see, or perhaps better, understand, is why there is so much decay. So many mobile homes or even regular small homes sit in fields rotting. There are so many cars parked hither and yon that have not seen a roadway in quite some time. And there is more trash along the roadsides than I have seen anywhere else along those many miles. In fact, I barely saw any. 

Ken Nerbern, in his excellent novel Neither Wolf Nor Dog, attempts to answer this question from a tribal elder that this accumulation is part of the resources used by the Indian, returned to the earth. I get that. But so many of these resources would take hundreds of years to disappear, yet in the meantime despoil that landscape which is held so dear. Further, can the retention of housing not serve a larger community purpose? Or is it simply that the former inhabitants, and perhaps their children, are moving off the reservation in search of a “modern” life? 

What I did find on the reservation communities, such as Hardin, Lame Deer and Busby, was a sense of community and protection. In Lame Deer, following a long day’s ride, I was looking to find a campsite. I was greeted at the main entrance to town by some young men at a table with one holding a sign that said ‘Slow’. I jokingly admitted to them that I know no other speed. What they were doing is taking license plates of those coming and going to protect the community from COVID. The entirety of the community was much more attuned to protection measures than anywhere in Montana. I, of course, had no license plate, perhaps had some visible sign of fatigue, and merely wanted to get some provisions at the IGA store up the street. Mentioning I had been fully vaccinated, they let me pass. 

Parking my bike in front of the IGA, and with my mask on, two younger women saw my loaded bike and me and exclaimed astonishment that I would do this, and thought it would be cool. I offered them to try my bike out which they quickly declined, having never learned to ride one. I asked them where I might pitch a tent, and visibly rolling some possibilities in their minds and discussing it between them, they finally agreed that the small park with picnic tables by the main entrance to the village “would be safest”. 

That final comment before parting ways, with thanks, startled me greatly. I contemplated this all evening. Was this community not safe? Was it me as a white person not safe in this community? Was it the poverty and idleness of youth that gives rise to mischief that somehow these women knew about? 

 As I was having dinner, a car drove by on the small gravel drive toward the cemetery, stopped, and rolled down the window. With a big smile, he gave me a welcome, asked of my journey, and said of course I could camp there. I would have liked to have had an extended conversation with this man, maybe to seek some answers, to build a connection I was missing. Instead, we both went along our separate ways. 

The next morning there were ice crystals on my tent! 

Pistol Packing Padre and the Pentecostal Parish 

The scenery of the vast reservation lands was beautiful, but US212 a bit weary to ride upon given all the trucks and the inconsistent shoulder. I was overdue for lunch and thought perhaps Busby, on the Cherokee reservation, may hold some promise of a small store where a fella could get a cold drink. Sometimes these communities have small, local canteens. 

A small village, the only promise for a spot of respite was a small frame building with a cross on it, a sign indicating its Pentecostal faith, a picnic table thereby under the welcome shade of a tree. I decided to stop there and have my lunch. It wasn’t too long before I was visited by two identical black dogs looking at me, keeping their distance, with obvious interest in my consumables. A few moments later, a young boy peeked his head around the corner of the church (the parish house was adjacent) with obvious curiosity to whom I asked if it was OK I had my lunch here. He of course said yes. A few minutes later, a pickup truck pulled up and out pops an engaging fellow, tall, forthright and clearly not an Indian. He stuck out his hand and welcomed my to have lunch at his table, and in fact joined me and introduced the boy as Jeremiah, his 8 year old grandson (the gracious beneficiary of two of my beef sticks). 

A few years older than me, it turns out that he grew up in St. Paul, rolled around in college at University of Minnesota Duluth with a degree in Education and found his way out to Busby in the 1980’s where he landed a teaching job in industrial arts at the local school. That, and his feeling of a calling to help this community has kept him here ever since. Clearly not an Indian, he did marry into the community, has several children, and grandchildren, and even a great grandchild. And his church has grown to 18 parishioners, though many are not attending Sunday School as he would like. And he has a side gig delivering mail everyday along a rural route. 

All this over lunch. But I could not help but notice the pistol holstered on his left hip. I did not ask about it (a matter of regret as I look back). After all, this is Montana, guns are everywhere. But it seemed inordinately curious that a man of faith would need a tool that I am certain the “faith” would not endorse? I confess my ignorance of religious doctrine other than “pax’ is everywhere – this seemed unusual. 

Or, was the community inherently unsafe? Even for a padre? I wish I had asked. 

He and Jeremiah put their hand on my shoulder and prayed for my safe journey.

Little Bighorn 

It was Memorial Day, a clear blue windless sky, perfect for the gentle 15 mile ride to Crow Agency from Hardin where I had camped, and the climb to the Little Bighorn National Monument entrance. I had been here some many years before, a quick stop as I recall with young (and likely impatient) kids, not remembering so much of the detail as the perspective. 

It was actually named the Custer Battlefield at the time, reflecting its one-sided Anglo Saxon perspective. “Custer’s Last Stand” is indeed a hilltop where he met his fate, and all of those around him, marked by small white stones where a soldier fell. Is it wrong to feel guilt at thinking that Custer had it coming? Is it wrong to read the narratives and think the Indian had every right to defend their way of life? That this was their moment to rise up? 

History finished this story in other ways, relegating the indigenous to reservations that I now ride through. I could not help continuing to reflect on this. Some form of reconciliation is what I was seeking, and was not disappointed to see told of a “bury the hatchet” meeting at the fifty year anniversary in 1926. I was pleased to  see the “new” Indian Memorial to this event , and also brown granite markers where Indians lost their lives in defense of the Cheyenne and Sioux way of life, as it is so marked. The memorial, a circle of stones set partially below the surrounding hillside in keeping with Indian heritage, has a wire frame silhouette of fighters that cleverly depicts their bravery. 

I was glad of this, glad to see this better representation of native perspective. Thanks to George H.W. Bush for making that happen. It was too long overdue. What was particularly impressive on this day were the flags at all the headstones of the federal cemetery, fluttering in the breeze against the clear blue sky. A fitting way to recognize Memorial Day, for both white and Indian forebears. 

Signs of Death 

I have peddled slowly past hundreds of little white crosses that line the roadsides, each a sobering reminder of an event past, a marker of a story unknown to most that pass it. Some are brightly decorated; others are showing signs of age. 

But why? How? I was riding on some fairly remote country roads where the danger of death by automobile seems so remote. Was it inattentiveness? Was it alcohol? Did a deer or antelope endanger? 

Like a scene investigator, I was looking for tell-tale clues of terrain, skid marks, or residual auto parts nestled now among grasses. Nothing. All I could harbor were thoughts of the life lost, and the lives affected by those lost. It seems such a waste. But is Montana unique in marking these memorials? Or if one could see all the “ghosts” of accidents past on any roadway, we would be flooded with these little white crosses? 

They are a sobering reminder, even to a bicyclist, leading to countless events of wonder. 

Two Half-Moons

Not once, but twice did I note remote outhouses with not one but two holes side by side, sharing space and one door.  I know social distancing has taken root as a concept, which clearly puts these facilities at a disadvantage.  I am not sure if this is perhaps a new Montana unisex facility?  Plenty of opportunity to think on this subject when appropriately throned.

 

Big Sky 

Montana is Big Sky country. I fully agree.

Dear Kathy

 

I have as much desire to see you as you do me.  I can only sympathisize [sic] with your feelings.  In spite of more than two years that has passed, with such correspondence that we try to keep, a meeting time/place can be postponed to a time of personal and economic convenience.  How long that will be I have no notion of, but sooner it will be with respect to our lives, long lives at that.  Patience is a virtue, someone taught us!  (Sanibel, 12/28/75)

Dear Kathy,

Do you remember that time we took that crazy trip down the Upper Missouri River?  I know time has passed, flowed by like the river itself.  But that is our story, is it not?  Why, at the time we determined we had known each other for 50 years, based upon that packet of old letters from me you brought along.  Our memories fade in our old age, but the letters, like this one you now read, rekindle them.

Perhaps, my good friend, the twain of us shall meet, and pardon the passing of time to have delayed it so long, and perhaps we shall not, as fate will deliberate on that score. (July 28, 1974)

I met you in Fort Benton, awaited you and our motel room.  The place was a bit strange – a re-purposed 100 year old mercantile building with no windows to the outside so we could witness the ever changing weather situation, yet large enough to sort the hodge-podge of gear for the trip.  The hostess was a bit sassy and somewhat ornery – I had to wait on her and you in the deepening cold.  When you arrived, we walked the river front and the old bridge to pass the time, and then called upon our guide Nicolle who at first asked if we wanted to cancel due to the pending weather.  

I guess we thought ourselves made of solid stock for we said no.  Oh! Perchance it was me that said no, and you followed. Having both travelled so far for this long-planned event, how could we cancel at this time?  Instead, maybe some prayer for better weather was in order, and an adjustment in our itinerary to cut two days off the duration for when the weather might improve, to shorten the days to hunker in our tent if weather turned worse enroute.

Like just about every soul on this globe, I have been blessed with a mind to think, and like just about every soul, I have tinkered with its machinations, grinding the gears to grind out thoughts.  That’s a lot to say about thinking, but regardless, I’ve been thinking.  The past seems, other than past, very distant, and between then and now there is a big void!  Why? It matters little the past is a memory, the future unknown, the present, happening!  (Hendersonville, NC July 15, 1974)

And then there was the matter of Andy.  Remember how this was to be the third ‘every five year” adventure – at this cold moment, realizing we had the powdery remnants of our long departed friend safely tucked in a small envelope?  Hard to believe it had already been six years since he passed, and 16 years (COVID adjusted) since we three first met in the Oregon forest and agreed to do this.

I haven’t heard much from those we grew up with.  Perchance you and Andy are the last standoffs. Though there is no telling how long that will continue, all persons follow the path time leads them to.  Different ways, thoughts and actions (Atlanta Oct 25, 1975 to KS UC Santa Cruz)

No, we were bound and determined to go!  A nice dinner at the local “fine hotel” – the empty Grand Union - yielded a bountiful harvest of Brussel Sprouts, not all of which was consumable and was tucked away in our gear to add to our future camp meals – two more memorable meals, as I recall.  A fine evening to reconnect as old, dear friends, and to work out the anxiety of the adventure ahead.  I think the beverage helped with that!

As I write this, I still know that there is a person to whom this is directed. Not a ghost or government official, but to someone whom has interested me from the outset.  So don’t puzzle yourself with how I changed.  There still exists the need to correspond, out of some reaction to the past.  Let yourself be convinced that this is the same person, displaced to another part of the country, that you knew of long ago; the same old soul that is carried to old age!  (Atlanta Oct 25, 1975 to KS UC Santa Cruz)

We loaded your car and headed north to Coal Bank to put-in on the river.  It was cold though not raining when we left Fort Benton, but do you remember turning onto the gravel road toward Coal Bank and parking the car?  The setting was surreal – an expanse of wide open treeless prairie, the muddy gravel road stretching ahead of us, and snowy rain splattering the windshield. 

Oh, this was classic – seemed like a Fargo moment. “Do you think we should do this?”  I could sense your heightened anxiety, yet you thought me ready to bluster on and be brave, and so you too would soldier on.  I simply needed another opinion.  While still in cell range, we called Nicolle and asked what she would do. “Postpone departure a couple of days and go see Don Sorenson at the Virgelle Mercantile – he will have a cabin. That is what I would do. You can still make Judith Landing in three days.”

We mustered ahead a few miles to Virgelle – an old town of 1912 vintage when the railroad came through, with only his Mercantile, a Bank and a few outbuildings remaining in this idyllic spot each filled with antiques.  Yet he had crafted this antique emporium with a bed and breakfast using relocated Settler’s cabins. Oh, they were cozy, were they not?  Wood stove, and outhouse nearby- a double-wide no less!  Yet still the creature comforts of a shower room available elsewhere on the compound, and the miracle that was Don’s breakfasts. Two nights stay is what we sought in this mounting snow, now just to watch and wait.  And talk. About our parents, children, families, old school mates.  About life and relationships.

So we hunkered.  I recall that most favorite picture of you – I still have it – sitting at the table, looking out the window, watching the evolving snowstorm from the warmth of the room, a warm glow upon your features.  Do you remember that day, reading my old letters from as far back as 1973?  Oh, there were laughs and tears reading these.  You gave them to me – the hard copies, aged and yellowed, a glimpse long forgotten into the details of my youth, revealing a genuine love and friendship for you that has never really left, you know. It continues to this day, in this letter, my friend.

I was unduly amazed at your reaction to my letters.  I was happy that you liked my prose-like letters!  But one secret!  Writing is one of my better means of communication.   (Sanibel, Aug 9, 1973)

But after two days, with a brightening yet cloudy and damp prospect, we embarked on our journey downstream.  We had to go, growing restless in the cabin, a safe space.  We waited for this moment, and the cabin, though a wonderful respite, was not the journey, though a bit of Andy did ceremoniously contribute to the “gemütlichkeit” of the place.

Glad you like the photograph, as I produce, more may come in the next decade (I have confidence that we will know each other that long!)  (Atlanta Jan 19, 1976 to KS at UC Santa Cruz)

As I recall the weather was not so kind as we would have hoped, but did manage to scare all the others that had considered this voyage, for we found ourselves alone on the river and every camping spot. That may have been a bit unnerving for you, but it was blissful. Just us, and the grand scene nature carved for us.

What a fantastic land I have come to. Like a shipboard sailor seeing nothing of life except the perpetual castings of the restless sea, land seems like a strange and different experience.  Why should it be so different for me? From land to land is perhaps no great change.  But that is an idiots reaction!  This land is . . . as words can’t rightly express.  Perhaps you can grasp the feeling.  The mountains are as ageless as the sea, perhaps as unique, perhaps as dull to some, but to me they are pinnacles on which I can come to grip with changing patterns of nature, places for rest, inspiration, contemplation and peace.  And for certain other lands possess some stultifying reactions, but my life is slowly awakening to the new life ahead, which inspires this soul. (Hendersonville, NC July 15, 1974)

I remember with particular fondness the following events:

·       Paddling alongside the sheer white cliff descending directly into the river, and all the carved mountains, walls and cliffs; many a person could we imagine sculpted in this stone edifice.

 

·       Hiking up the slot canyon, getting narrower and narrower, though you were quite tired.

 

·       Watching the wildlife – birds and beasts – beaver slapping its tail, engaging with a clutch of river otters at sunset along our campsite embankment, and worried about the reported sightings of a grizzly bear in our midst.

·       The old stone settler’s cabin – a ruin as I recall – set in a pristine valley descending to the river, where we found Andy would have told many a story of this place, the story teller as he was.  He can do so now.

·       That amazing sunset squeezed between a rain burst and our dinner, suddenly evolving into this amazing experience.  We were giddy with excitement seeing the changing colors on the distant rock cathedrals, cliffs and pinnacles.  And then it was gone.

·      

That final day!  How could we forget starting the morning with a river of glass, and around a bend the tail wind picked up with a vengeance, sending cross currents and whitecaps across the entire river.  You didn’t need to paddle, and for me only to steer like Huck Finn riding the currents.  We missed our campsite and suddenly found ourselves at the bridge – at Judith landing, I think it was called – the paddling was over!  We had “paddled” 20 miles with that tailwind, more like a whitewater rapid for most of the distance.

Perhaps you have seen a rose bloom, one by one the petals unfurl, gracefully unfolding until full flower appears.  Such is my feelings.  In a sense, I have unfolded, or rather, my surroundings  unfolded me. I have learned so much.  All that I sensed, smelled, felt, saw, all converged on me in a motion of absolute peace and genuine harmony.  Though peace and harmony is so hard to define on the whole, it is easily felt individually (Hendersonville, Sept 4, 1974 – to KS in ML)

Oh, Kat.  Do you remember?  I do hope so, for it was a remarkable journey to reconnect our lives separated by time, distance and the life we have each lived. I choked up a bit as you drove away from the hotel in Lewistown, thinking to the next time (five years hence?) but resolved to quit being so sentimental and get on my bike.  And so I rode off on my journey, and you on yours, to whatever lay ahead.

The beauty and natural splendor intoxicate me as cheap wine, the absolute “silence, like a cancer grows,” possesses me in a peaceful clutch, never letting up until, encamped by a road, is returned to the wood.  The grasses sing their song, brushing with but a faint shimmer against my weary bones, swaying artistically over the vines atop a mountain.  A web, laden with drops of moisture, attempts vainly to strap, successfully entrapping my glance with awe! Never has any journey been so rewarding, so pronouncing of its joy, and never have I been so much at peace.  You, of course, over the many miles of contemplative silence, fill my thoughts. Half the trip now memory, 150 miles, I sign off.  I love you.  Peter   (The woods of Tennessee,  August 13, 1974)

I sometimes get the impression that I nauseate people with my letters, however sparse, though you once mentioned you enjoyed it.   I can lash out the best messages with the written word, this is my medium, this the message.”  (Hendersonville, NC July 15, 1974)

Baldy

 

I have always been fascinated with maps.  Now, as I plan my trips, I study the routes and the special geography of the areas I plan to visit,  My first two days plan was inspired by a dark green “outcrop” on Googlemaps south of Havre, surrounded by what appeared to be the vast plains of Montana – locally called the “golden triangle.”

The Bearpaw Mountains and Mount Baldy was my destination.  This is the plains, how high could they really be compared to the Rockies?

Certainly, I could have made Havre to Fort Benton in one long day, but why just race there?  I could have been picked up at Havre by our guide service.  Exploration of new, out of the way places, is what intrigues me.

 Departing early Monday morning, May17th on a beautiful day, I almost immediately started a long 34 mile climb, estimated by my cycling website as about 4000 feet.  And it never seemed to end.  Indeed I could see Mt Baldy from the distance in a few spots, but it was nestled within the rest of the Bear Paw terrain and not always easy to spot.

Up and away!

The climb largely follows Beaver Creek, and along many miles of this route, there a campgrounds sponsored by several organizations along the creek, such as one of two I stopped at (to rest) supported by the Lions club.  Quite empty.  Had my lunch, and since it was quite warm and my quadriceps talking back to me, I found a small stream pool, stripped down to soak my legs in the ice cold water.  It was actually was quite therapeutic, if only momentarily.

I continued to climb and after many twists and turns, found myself at a long awaited crossroad at the northeast base of Mount Baldy, now in soaring view.  I had two routes to Big Sandy – one that shows up on some maps and not others skirting the north side of the mountain past the Bear Paw ski slope, and other encircling on a more well used gravel road around the east south and southwest side of the mountain. 

Naturally, I chose the road less travelled by – Whitman would not be pleased to know that this was a very poor decision.  The road became gravel, very steep, and eventually became a very rugged Jeep road whose steepness and rockiness required me to push my bike up, trying to reach the pass and my certain expectation of a very long down hill stretch to Big Sandy.

Now with areas of patchy snow, laboring like a mule (ass?) to push my heavy bike, I gave up.  I turned around and decided this was not the way to go.  I walked back down the mile or so of my error and happened upon a campground that was completely empty, and found the spot I had been hoping for –with a perfect view of the mountain.  It was 3:30.  I spent hours climbing – I knew when to stop.

Where I gave up walking

How majestic this peak is.  Yet once I entered the Rocky Boys Indian Reservation, I took note of a sign disallowing any visitors within ½ mile of the summit.  The Rocky Boys reservation was started in 1916 for the benefit of the Annishinabe Ne-i-yah-wahk, the Chippewa Cree.  For them, the mountain is sacred, and the half mile limit was established so the tribe can conduct their vision quests on the mountaintop to enable 16 year old boys to become men.  They climb the mountain with no food or water for four days in pursuit of their vision.

And I could now see why.  In this tribal campground; alone, I could enjoy the splendor of the peak and imagine the view from the still snow-capped summit.  And I nourished myself from the waters of Beaver Creek, now just a small stream, as I had consumed a vast amount of water just to get here.

Mount Baldy from my campsite

Spending a cold night without the tarp on the tent, I was witness to such a starry display over various moments of wakefulness that could easily have kept me awake all night, but the fatigue of the day had caught up with me.  My expectation of a small climb to the pass and then a nice long downhill to Big Sandy seemed a cinch, even though it was all gravel.  My legs and my mind were refreshed, after all. There by lunch and could possibly make Fort Benton another 34 miles down the road.

Wrong!

That misleading imagery of the map showing great plains emanating from this small mountain range does not reveal the true topography – a roller coaster of very steep downs and very steep ups on a somewhat rough gravel road surface, totaling another almost 2000 feet of climbing.   The geography of undulating hills dipping through creek draws and back up to running ridges meant I was not able to “let it roll” to power up the next small hill as I was squeezing the brakes.  And the steepness of the hills became magnificently tiring, requiring me to shed my shame for pushing my bike up many of the them (that's exercise too, right?).  I had visions of simply tipping over I was grinding up so slowly. And I almost ran over several snakes!

But the scenery of these undulating hills, of evergreen forests transitioning to rolling plains, was spectacular – “God’s country” according to one rancher that stopped his ATV to mention that he has only ever seen one other bicyclist make this route through his enormous ranch.  But as I slowly descended below the evergreen treeline and into the grassland I was hit with an enormous headwind that further complicated my travel and made the stretch very difficult, nearly blowing me over a few times (later reported to be as high as 40mph). 

The long and windy road, past those distant buttes

Finally, I crested a ridge and could see the small town of Big Sandy in the distance – way in the distance – and through this treeless plain with a full frontal assault of wind, I slowly made my way there, only to finally be stopped a few miles from town on a stretch of road whose gravel was like riding on ball bearings – very unsteady and sure to tip my rig.

I gave up again – I walked for a good mile or so along this road pushing my bike in the wind – Big Sandy so close yet so far. And then came Rusty, rancher of the X-Ranch I had just passed.  He offered and I accepted tossing my bike in his pickup bed and rode what turned out to be only a mile to paved surface, and two into town.  In that short period, Rusty told me about the Golden Triangle – the great plains that produces huge amounts of grain – bordered by Great Falls, Cutbank and Havre, even promoted on my Mountain Man beer can this evening.  He dropped me at The Motel (its actual name) where a shower, a room and meal in this tiny town was reward enough for two days of a most beautiful grind!

Baldy inspired my journey, as I suppose it still inspires native boys on theirs! No regrets.

The Longest Day

 As I write this, it is early morning on the train in east central North Dakota heading to Havre, Montana, the sun just rising, distant clouds a slight shade of pink against the big blue sky.  It has been too long since I last visited this keyboard.  And now, 10 months have passed, and I am breaking free of the pandemic, of the politics, of the heated divisive nature of our society.  

I am simply going to ride my bicycle home. 

North Dakota morning from train

There really are no words that have not been said or written in so many places about the tumult of 2020-2021.  I can offer nothing new to this dialogue except this: it has been quite simply a remarkable year, a historic period in which the COVID pandemic, the racial justice movement and our divisive politics all converge in a perfect globe-consuming storm. Even this sentiment is not new.  And through it all I discovered what so many have discovered: we can adapt, work from home, and actually enjoy it!  I seemed to have gained much time in any given day.  I could watch my garden grow, go dormant, and rise up again this Spring.  But to you loyal readers that had to work from home and tend to your children’s schooling – I feel for you – that has to have been very tough!  But I think as a society we now appreciate teachers and childcare workers more, but also appreciate more family time and the ability to watch them grow in daily increments.  

Even perhaps, the family meal has more meaning now.

Society will be forever changed by the events of the past year.  Work will not be the same – at least when it does return to “normal” it may have been long enough to somehow seem different.  Hopefully, we will have made meaningful strides in social justice and policing when we look back at the George Floyd martyrdom, whose violent, shocking death but mere miles from my home shook the world, only because it was caught on video, for otherwise this incident would have been one of many relegated to an inequity dustbin – summarily ignored.  Maybe we can now get to a point where we can all breathe -  together as one people.

And of politics, what a truly shameful display that history will record.  The Capitol riot that no one thought could ever happen was incited by a deranged President who puts his faith in lies and deceit, and mercifully had been booted from office by the electorate, but not from memory or lingering influence.  But the political divisions and hateful rhetoric continues with stupid people saying and doing stupid things. While I have always been a centrist conservative, I can say now that the Republican party is rotting from the inside out, and no longer is even close to representing any of my centrist conservative values.  Good riddance!

Approaching Havre, contemplating the longest day and the journey ahead

Amidst this backdrop, I am finally on the train following the longest of days yesterday (May 15).  So much time and mental energy went into the planning of this trip – a countdown to yesterday.  The day finally arrives.  On a whim, I decided to bring my freshly boxed bicycle to the train station to check it in early, only to find out they no longer take a boxed bike, but I could “roll-on” my bike fully assembled, and schlep my gear on board. Glad my intuition told me to check again as I would have been hastily assembling the bike in the station while a wedding event was roaring in the same great hall.  So I went home to reassemble my bike, and then fidget over small tasks in the garden just to pass the time, enjoy a nice Becky-made dinner, take a walk, until I could finally board at 11:30PM.

So in this backdrop of the past year+, I am escaping.  I plan to ride from Havre to Fort Benton, and meet my dearest friend from high school, Kathy Siebert (with the full support of Becky). We will paddle a canoe for 5 days on the Upper Missouri Breaks, celebrating a pledge we had made with our departed friend Andy to meet every 5 years for an adventure. Andy is with us as well(on what would be our third such sojourn), riding in an envelope in my pannier, a gift of widow Amy.  Following this, I will ride through Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota and Minnesota, riding past Devils Tower, the Black Hills, the Badlands, and numerous small towns that dot the South Dakota and Minnesota prairie. 

Many miles to ruminate, reflect and absorb.  It was the longest of days, and indeed a metaphor for this whole past year.

Just off the train in Havre - not this old Great Northern Locomotive!