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!

The Saloon

On my recent tour through western and northern Minnesota, I had a lot of "handlebar" time to think about things, most especially, COVID.

Much of outstate Minnesota is a frontier, where the old revolutionary concept of "don't tread on me" seems apparent.  And I kind of get it.  Jobs are challenging and hard here - logging, mining, farming - with many proud communities that appear to be just getting by, on their own, away from the loud melee that is the government mandates. For the most part, businesses in this area were doing their part to comply with the Governor's mask orders.  Indeed, the Hungry Duck Cafe, where the ham dinner ordered to go was exemplary after a long ride day as they were closing, even took our contact information down for their social tracing when we returned for breakfast in the morning.

But there were exceptions.  In one small frontier town, I went to the only local establishment - a tavern - to order a pizza for dinner, upon the recommendation of the unmasked convenience store clerk I visited upon arrival in town, asking directions to our motel.  I approached the entrance to the tavern, read the government mandated "masks required," slipped on my mask, and walked in.  

Now, imagine an old western film for a moment, where the "outlaw" wanders down an empty street, tumbleweeds tumbling, dust blowing.  Alone on this street, sensing eyes upon him peering from windows, he approaches the tavern.  Pausing, he holsters his mask around his  ears, and pushes the saloon doors open, all eyes of the patrons turned upon him as he gathers the sense of the place.

The patrons were all maskless, likely known to each other, and certainly took note of him (probably profiling him immediately, thinking "not from around here, are ya?").  He started to approach to order, when a woman dashed around the horseshoe shaped bar, and as she approached his vicinity, lifted her pullover to cover her mouth as she trotted past to her seat among friends in the opposite corner, all the while talking loudly to the other patrons.  The conversation around this small bar was why she was covering up, and she said she was a teacher and she had to do it in school.  

Hmmm, this outlaw thinks: "not here too?  Bringing it back to the kiddies, are we, who bring it back to . . .?"

Fully self-conscious, this outlaw defiantly kept his mask on, approached the humorless, unmasked bartender leaning close in to hear, ordered the pizzas, and mentioned he would wait outside.   Payment tendered, the cowboy turns and exits the scene, discomforted, but capturing in this exchange the essence of this frontier.  

Oh, the pizza was very good, distanced, in our small motel room.

Leaving to Go Home - MnLOOP COVID Tour

In a way, as soon as you leave, you're heading home.  On a bicycle, that is.

COVID-19 limited our options in 2020.  Rich Freyholtz, my long time touring partner, and I decided we needed to stay close to home to satsify our itch for an annual bicycle tour.  Since we were Driftless last year (Wisconsin/Minnesota driftless region), we decided a trip to "find northern Minnesota" was in order.  Having lived in this State since 1980, there is still much that I have not seen of the State - most of it actually.  Rather than provide a detailed day-by-day journal, I offer the highlights.

As we were coasting toward home on our 15th and final day, Rich asked what geometric shape would our route have taken?  Since we returned, I have studied the map - again - and determined it is a rectangle, slightly rotated, with the twin cities in the bottom corner, Detroit Lakes as the westernmost terminus going northwest up the short side, International Falls at the end of a long side as the northernmost terminus, Beaver Bay on Lake Superior down the next side and the eastern terminus, and back home on a long side.

Geometry is useful after all!

972 miles, give or take, the perimeter of our rectangle.  Crossed continental divides separating all three watersheds - Mississippi, Lake Superior, and Hudson Bay.  Camped some.  Motel-ed some. Sometimes ate well, (especially "catered" food brought by friends for a rest day in Lake Itasca), sometimes not so well.  Generally fine weather - some hot, some quite cool days.  Fierce headwinds and luxuriant tailwinds - both when least expected. Saw a coyote and a bear, but they did not await their photo portrait.  Had long, straight and flat rails to trails, and roller coaster hills to tax the mind and legs, with some gravel roads to test our mettle.  Unplanned detours for road construction that stretched our mileage. Surrendered pints blood to countless mosquitoes in Lake Itasca - as bad as I had ever experienced.  Yet we wore everything we had to stay warm in an unexpected cool snap.  One flat tire (Rich) and one worn out tire (Peter) - but solid bikes that held their own with gear that always seemed to weigh too much.

In other words, a good ride!  The highlights:

Glendalough State Park

Located southeast of Detroit Lakes, north of the resort town of Battle Lake, this is a newer State Park, deeded to the State in 1992 by the Cowles Family, owners of the Start Tribune newspaper.  The property was assembled by F. E. Murphy in 1928 and served as a corporate retreat that over its history brought two presidential candidates (Eisenhower and Nixon) to the site, no doubt for fishing and the "get to know the candidate" interview.  To the west starts the rolling prairie landscape, to the north and east the mixed hardwood forest. With walk-in tent sites only, multiple lakes, and a paved path around Annie Battle Lake, this proved a peaceful respite the morning and night.

Phelps Mill

Otter Tail county is really the edge of the glaciated region, with the Otter Tail river flowing somewhat lazily past the Phelps Mill.  I was not expecting such a place on this journey, but signs indicated the direction to the mill enticed us to veer from the planned path, revealing a lone remnant of a flour mill, one of over a thousand that used to dot Minnesota.  Constructed in 1888-89 by a builder that also constructed a low-rise dam to power the mill, it was quite productive in the region until electricity and the railroads made milling on such a small scale less affordable.  The mill closed in 1939, but was fortunately restored and turned over to the county in 1965.  The Phelps Mill District is really just a few buildings - the mill, the miller residence that itself is quite attractive, and a general store that still is in operation (but not open during our visit).  This was a surprise stop for me as a lover of history.

Tamarac National Wildlife Refuge

This also was a surprise.  We expected to merely pass through these roads, not fully realizing that they traversed a national Wildlife Refuge.  A nice paved road abruptly ended in gravel, much  to our disdain, but in generally good riding condition. The road wound through wetlands, lakes, and over small eskers, remnants of the receding glaciers.  Tchaikovsky would have been inspired by the "Swan Lakes" for we saw several pairs, as well as an eagle and other waterfowl.  There is a very scenic 5 mile loop road that just mesmerized us.  Worth a return trip to traverse some trails.

The Lost 40 and the northern Frontier

Well, mistakes happen, and in this case in 1882, when this area was mistakenly tagged by logging company surveyors as a lake that is actually a half mile south.  Good for us, for in 1960 the error was found, and this old growth stand of white and red pine is preserved, with some of the larger specimens around 250 years old.  Part of our original trip planning included an extensive detour to this somewhat mysteriously sounding Lost 40  Scientific and Natural Area, along rural and remote gravel roads.  We expected it to be somewhat empty for we hadn't experienced much traffic at all that day.  Yet when we arrived, the small parking lot was full and the roadside parked.  We trekked the short paths into the stands, trying to avoid any number of people also there to share in the experience.  Worth a stop in spite of the unexpected crowd.  I tried to hug a tree, but couldn't get my arms around it!

This Lost 40 sits on an esker, literally a bump on the ground formed by retreating glaciers.  This area north of Bemidji, all the way to and around International Falls, is what I would call the northern Minnesota frontier.  It is desolate, empty and flat, with few improved roads other than US 71 up to the Canadian border, traversing through tamarack and pine stands, and many wetlands.  Encompassing all of Koochiching county, its desolation is also its beauty.  We were fortunate to ride 71 on a Sunday morning, clear, a bit cool, with literally no traffic on this long, straight run.  So much of this land north central and northeast Minnesota is really still a wilderness frontier, and worth the glimpse into a landscape that has likely never changed.

Cook to Beaver Bay 

Rich and I reflected on what the best part of our trip was, and we both agreed that the run from Cook, through Tower-Soudan, and Ely to the north shore of Lake Superior to be the best.  Having camped the night before on Lake Kabetegoma in Voyageurs National Park (Woodenfrog Campground - nice!), we were deluged by a downpour that lasted until mid morning before we could leave.  With soaked gear, and not wanting any more gravel roads, we opted to stay in Cook rather than camp in a primitive campground on Lake Vermillion.  Following local country roads, we passed the south edge of the Lake, and stopped first in Tower, a small village that hosts the Tower Train Museum.  Some enterprising industrialists, including Charlemagne Tower Jr., formed the Minnesota Iron Company and acquired/constructed a railroad from Tower to Two Harbors, called the Duluth and Iron Range Railway in the mid 1880's.  Not long after, the company was purchased by Cyrus McCormick, Marshall Field, and John D. Rockefeller, which in 1901 became the United States Steel Corporation.  We enjoyed touring the trains on display, and having lunch, including fresh roadside corn on the cob cooked on my small camp stove.

We followed this up, quite literally up a very steep hill, to the Soudan Mine site, opened in 1882.  While closed to tours, we could still walk the grounds and take in the incredible vistas, and gain a better understanding of this historic mine, the first in Minnesota.  While wandering, a docent started chatting with us.  Retained by the Historical Society, they are performing light maintenance duties during this COVID period, but are encouraged to speak with visitors. A former miner himself, we enjoyed quite an animated conversation with this fellow, including finding out why this mine is in the hands of the State in the first place.  Formerly, mining corporations were taxed on the basis of "known reserves" in perpetuity.  That was fine when times were good, and productivity high.  But as an underground mine, rather than a open cut mine, it could not keep up with capacity of open mines that were developing nearby. Having closed the mine in 1962, the company donated the mine to the State, essentially to avoid paying these "reserve" taxes when not producing.  The law has since been changed, but this is a worthwhile site to revisit, and head underground.  

It is also the site of a former University of Minnesota laboratory that attempted to catch neutrinos shot from an accelerator in Chicago, now run by Fermi labs.  Our guide explained the challenges of catching a neutrino, as it is equivalent in size to a grain of sand if one thinks of an electron the size of the largest football stadium in the country.  I thought we saw a neutrino, but upon further reflection, it was a mosquito!  

Finally, we were able to simply spin through this marvelous country along the Boundary Waters area. Blessed with great, cool weather and a tailwind both days, we followed US 169 to Ely and  Minnesota Highway 1 to Lake Superior, a ride characterized as a roller coaster of small hills, well shaded from close-in pines and hardwood forest.  Though no shoulder was on this route, the traffic was light.  And we were able to take a break in Isabella, an experience further described in my previous blog post Henry and Isabella.  This run is probably one of my top ten rides.  Well worth it!

Rails to Trails

We did take advantage of the many miles of railroad lines converted to bicycle trails on this trip.  And I have mixed feelings about them.   Since they do take you off of the busier roads, they are generally a relaxing ride.  But there is a certain monotony to them.  The grades are railroad grades, namely as flat as possible, and as straight as possible.  So there is little variation to change up a pedaling rhythm.  I am no fan of climbing hills, but they do actually give your legs a break, at least over a short distance, such as the aforementioned "roller coasters".  Based upon history, towns are usually around six miles apart to align with old water filling stations for the locomotives, so that is beneficial as well.  In all, we rode the Lake Wobegon Trail (St. Cloud to Osakis), the Central Lakes Trail (Osakis to Evansville), the Paul Bunyan Trail (east side of Lake Bemidji),  the Gitchee Gumi trail (north shore), the Willard Munger Trail (Duluth to Hinkley), the Sunrise Prairie Trail (North Branch to Forest Lake) and the Hardwood Creek Trail (Forest Lake to Hugo).  Quite a few miles off the road!  The finest of these, however, was the Willard Munger Trail from the start in south Duluth to Carlton, ascending the Lake Superior bluff zone through forest and blasted rock canyons up to Jay Cook State Park, and the town of Carlton beyond.  Definitely not your ordinary flat trail.  And I must also state that for one reason only, the Hardwood Creek Trail was also appreciated for keeping us off of Highway 61 and in the shade, on our very last leg as we raced home on the 15th day - September 5th.  It was a welcome respite.

Home

So there you have it.  As soon as we departed August 22nd, we headed home, just not directly.  Let's just say we went a bit further than around the block, like boys that are expected to be home for dinner but are distracted by the sights in the woods between.  And Becky was waiting with dinner and a few beers.  Perfect ending to a great local, pandemic escaping trip!

Some of my favorite pictures of the trip: