West. Day 16.

June 24, 2016

Little Yellowstone Park to Gackle, North Dakota

---

June 24. Dad's birthday. He would have been eighty-nine.

Before tackling the grind up Little Yellowstone's steep exit drive, I took a photo of a pink flower planted in the hollow of a gnarled tree. Blood-red veins almost pulsed in its petals as it stretched toward the morning light.

An unlikely flower.

Happy birthday, Dad.

I pedaled the entire one-mile-climb that rose beyond the drive and paused. My phone had enough bars to call Andy. He was chatty, but the sky threatened rain.

"I need to get moving," I said.

Forty miles of an annoying drizzle ensued. The day cleared and brought a steamy headwind.

A lone tree promised cover for relief, until out of nowhere a four-wheeler with two men roared up to fix a fence. Ah, well, carry on.

Potty-stop interrupted.

Halfway up another long grade, I stopped to shoot a video of wind rippled wheat. As I panned, three riders materialized from the west like Viking ghost ships.

Not ghosts. Riders with grins as wide as the prairie.

The cheery trio was a welcome break from the forever straight road and wind across wheat fields that rolled like the ocean; our encounter a reprieve from my sadness thinking of Dad and how Mom must miss him.

How I miss him.

Dad points at me, about one month before he died.

The mind-blow of the open prairie gave an opportunity for reflection.

The endless road.