East. Day 45.

July 23, 2016

Worden to Hysham, Montana

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By 9:30 a.m. I screamed off I-94 into Custer. Can you believe it? More than 30 miles with a cross-wind that turned tailwind.

Custer, population 159, was a one-pump gas station and convenience store next to a deserted bar. I paused to consider staying on I-94 or continuing with the ACA route onto a sideroad. Bicycling on freeways was allowed in Montana (and North Dakota). Sometimes they were the only choice.

A salty young man rolled up from the east, straddled his upright touring bike, and groaned out a stretch.

God, I love my recumbent.

"Sorry about the winds today," I said. Seldom was I in the envious position of enjoying a tailwind.

"That's okay," he said. "I've been lucky so far. It's my turn today. Where ya headed?"

"Michigan. You?"

"San Francisco. Started in Philly. You've got a rough road between here and Hysham."

"Think I'd be better off on 94?"

"Well. No." He hesitates. "The county road is broken up, but...uh...it's not too bad."

"Guess I'll stay on the route then."

"Oh...there's cows. Lots of cows, a lot of cows. It was...interesting."

Okay then. Lots of cows. How bad could it be?

The road was rough, and not just with potholes. Cow pies dotted the pocked macadam like anti-tank land mines. What the? Lucky there was no traffic, it was a slalom run.

No traffic, that was, except for the cows the young man warned about. They were everywhere, grazing in scrub brush to the right where the prairie rolled down to the ever-present Yellowstone River, grazing to the left where grassy hills rolled up to the horizon. One stood broadside in the middle of the road, chewing her cud. She turned her head toward me with never a pause.

Oh please, don't spook.

"Hey there cow!" I said in the sweetest voice I could muster. "Good morning, and it is a good morning, isn't it? Lovely day for a chew. Or a bike ride."

Chew, chew, chew.

I inched closer. "Say, you don't mind if I ride on by, do you? I promise I won't even take your picture, although I sure would like a selfie with you."

I eased far around her business end, still chattering. "You stay right where you are and I'll slip by here and be on my way. Sound good?"

Her head swiveled. I wondered if it would keep going all the way around.

"Sure was nice chatting with you! Enjoy the sunshine."

Her neck didn't break--she flipped it the other way to watch me roll on.

Traffic block in 1976. Not like my encounter 40 years later, but...

The route later crossed a river at the Howrey Island Recreation Area. The park offered a one-mile nature trail, with primitive camping and a clean and pleasant outhouse. I stopped long enough to avail myself. For a moment, I was tempted to hike the trail, but I was hot and preferred to keep on.

As typical when a road crosses a river, it climbed up and away. Ah, well. I gathered the gumption to press into the work when something unusual through the trees opposite the park made me hesitate.

What?! Dinosaurs?

I wiped my eyes of sweat. Yep. Three dinosaurs in a line loomed almost as tall as the white house behind them, and taller than the red, white, and blue striped shed next to the house. When I posted their photo on Facebook, I was accused of hallucinating from the heat.

Perhaps it was the heat.

Roaring into Hysham, my planned stop for the night (and 60 miles under my tires), I was tempted to sail the tailwind another 20 into Forsyth. A fortunate meeting with a local gardener brought me to my senses. Hysham's grassy Lions Club Park had free camping and was next to its city pool. Turned out the pool was free, too.

Selfie with Mendy, the pool's manager, who rescued my wet swimming clothes after I left them in the shower.