East. Day 41.
- patti brehler
- May 16, 2021
- 3 min read
Updated: May 18, 2021
July 19, 2016
Helena to Three Forks, Montana
My original Facebook post:
Postcard from the road. July 19, 2016 Three Forks, MT.
Something Bikecentennial '76 founder Greg Siple said at the 49th-anniversary celebration: "You never know what the smallest encounter will bring."
Less than three weeks ago I rolled into a rest stop overlooking the Painted Canyon in the badlands of North Dakota. Bruce Newell, his wife Susan, and their daughter and friend stopped me. They were traveling home to Helena, MT from a family wedding in Minn. Bruce and Susan rode their bikes across the US a couple of years ago. "If you come through Helena, look us up," Bruce said.
When I contacted them with my return schedule I received an invitation to stay at their house. Bruce was out on a nine-day ride with some friends, but Susan was excited for me to come.
"It's a chance to pay it forward for all the help we've gotten while on tour," she said. (The couple also did 11 weeks on their bicycles in Europe.)
It might take a fellow touring cyclist to know just what's needed. A hot shower, washing machine, fresh salad and a cheesy-delicious bread casserole, a comfy bed (indoors), and a sharing of bicycle tales.
This morning, after a lovely breakfast of coffee and homemade granola topped with a banana and organic Greek yogurt, Susan got on her bike and led me over the "gentlest" hills across Helena to pick up my route to Three Forks, some 70 miles away.
Thank you Susan for a memorable visit!
Susan advised I take a sideroad detour through the small town of Toston to avoid a busy, narrow bridge across the Missouri River. I was glad I followed her directions.
The sideroad crossed the river over an old, iron girder bridge. No traffic, only a skinny old man wearing a faded ball cap and loose-fitting coveralls. He leaned against the railing about midway, dangling a fishing line. I eased to a stop and asked, "Catchin' anything?"
"Nope," he said without looking over his shoulder.
On I went, not wanting to disturb his solitude to any greater degree.
My home for that night? Camp Three Forks KOA, "Where the Montana Mountains Meet the Missouri." A man who looked like Mr. Klaus led me in his golf cart (an old hound dog sitting next to him) to a grassy, shady campsite. Lovely.
An excerpt from my book:
"If you need anything, just let us know," Mr. Klaus says. I half expect him to flick his nose and disappear. Instead, a black bunny hops by, trailed by three more. "A few summers ago some campers left their pet rabbit. It was black. I guess it found a mate, now we have them all over the place."
"Hey bunnies!"
May we all find a home where we can grow.
From my B'76 journal:
7/19/76
The next day we almost made it into camp at a decent hour – but three miles out of town we stopped in front of this house for a break and the farmer there brought us in for iced tea and donuts and a lot of information about farming – got to see his combine work – had a marvelous time.
We’re in Missouri now and the terrain is really getting hilly – and so steep.
Yesterday a 19-year-old girl got hit by a car and killed outside of Ashgrove – what a bummer. The townspeople had a memorial breakfast for us for her – fantastic.
[What a bummer??? Boy, was I young...]
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