West. Day 21.

June 29, 2016

Belfield, North Dakota to Wibaux, Montana

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Traveling west meant gaining time with each time zone, but it reminded me too much of the twice-a-year-change with Daylight Saving Time. I woke at 4:00 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep. At least I didn't have to wait long to call Andy (from the comfort of my sleeping bag)--it was 6:00 his time.

Trappers Kettle RV Park was a piece of flat grass behind the Trappers Kettle Restaurant and Inn. A credit-card-like key got me into the camp's restroom, a small, squat building with doors at either end. On either side of a hallway inside were three separate toilet rooms, complete with showers.

I treated myself to breakfast after breaking camp. The restaurant was rustic cowboy décor filled with artifacts from frontier days of trapping. The two eggs, bacon, toast, and crock of cinnamon oatmeal were delicious, filling, and expensive. I FaceTimed Mom while I ate. By 8:00 a.m. I was back on I-94.

It was a good ride.

My original Facebook post:

POSTCARD FROM THE ROAD 6/29/16

If I had stayed on the interstate instead of taking Old Hwy 10 at Medora, ND, if I had not taken the advice of Bruce, a man I met at a rest stop (he and his wife had ridden cross-country west to east a few years ago), and of the two riders that rolled up from the other direction as I was heading off, to take Old Hwy 10, I would have been soaked by a quick downpour and not met this man, Rick, proprietor of Olson's Service in Sentinel Butte, ND.

Old Hwy 10 ran up and down hills, some of which I had to walk, winding around buttes of the Badlands. It was desolate and striking.

I pedaled into Sentinel Butte looking for the convenience store listed on my ACA map. The only thing I found looked like a long-ago-closed little gas station. It had an overhang for me to take shelter under just as the heavens let loose.

Leaning my bike up under a window I noticed two men sitting inside at a round table. One of them motioned for me to come in.

"Take a seat, have some candy. Or how about a muffin or some banana bread?" said Rick.

The gregarious shopkeeper's son got married last weekend and he was trying to move the leftovers. Boyd, the other man, poured me a cup of coffee. "I have a farm down the way, but I fly commercial to pay for it," he said.

Rick's place seemed to be the hub of activity for the town of 80 residents. Trucks pulled in for gas at the single pump. Another farmer came in, chased off his hay fields by the rain, and helped himself to a microwaved sandwich and some chips and nacho cheese. A grandmother stopped in after picking up her granddaughter from summer day camp in the next town to buy some donuts that Rick spread with maple glaze as she waited. Another cyclist rode up from the west, soaked (she wasn't so lucky as me).

It was a happening place. To think I almost missed it.

The Newells and my bike by the Painted Canyon.

After I bid the Newells goodbye, I filled my water bottles and met two other cyclists riding west-to-east. One, squeezed into lycra shorts and a racing jersey, had a classic, lugged steel touring bike with wood fenders. It was pristine. "My wife and I took a vacation to the coast," he said. "She dropped me off to ride home to Iowa."

The other man was astride a well-worn hybrid bicycle and wore baggy mountain bike shorts and a light, long-sleeved shirt. "You for sure should get off the highway and take Old 10 at Medora," he said when I asked about their route.

Medora was a quaint, touristy town that could double as a set for a western movie. The wood facades of mercantile, trading post, and boot and western wear shops towered above the main drag. A paved bike path led me out of town.

"Thanks, guys, for the tip," I whispered after taking Old 10 instead of the highway out of Medora. It was a challenging pedal, but worth the delight in meeting Rick.

Rick and me in his gas station/meeting place in Sentinel Butte.

Eventually, I ended up back on I-94. The sky was so big I knew I was approaching Montana. At the state line, I stopped to dig out my Nikon for proper pictures. Montana. I made it!

Whooo hooo!

The road into Wibaux (Montana!) was blocked where it passed under a railroad bridge. I was able to sneak through on the crumbled sidewalk. Downtown Wibaux was two blocks of equally crumbling two-story brick buildings housing the Stockman Bar, the Rainbow Club, and the Shamrock Club on one side of the street, and the Firelite Bar and public library on the other, with Beaver Creek Brewery around the corner.

Beaver Valley Haven RV Park, my haven for the night, was less than a mile south of town. Barren and flat, its long circle drive brought me past a low row of what appeared to be apartments to a house with a sign that said "office." A stained redwood ramp led to the door, but no one answered my knock. Only then I noticed the handwritten note with a phone number. "I was just at the store," a woman answered. "I'll be right there."

The woman slid out of a weathered SUV. She looked about ready to deliver her baby on the spot. With one hand on the small of her back, she stretched, and then got me registered. "Take any site you want. The bathroom is in that building over there," she said, pointing to a manufactured home behind the apartments.

I settled on a scrubby spot with a large bush that I hoped would shield me from the wind and setting sun.

It took three weeks to get to Montana. I had just over two weeks to get to Missoula in time for the anniversary party. Yahoo!

From my B'76 journal:

6/29/76

Had another nice ride to Encampment the 28th. Was our turn to cook – Dave made chili and met some man who gave us about 7# of sausage for breakfast. It was great.

Today we crossed over into Colorado. Loree got sick around noon so we took a couple hour rest. Used my space blanket as a canopy – really kept us cool – will be great in Kansas.

Colorado doesn’t impress me thus far but we’re only 20 some miles into it. I thought that the Bitterroot Valley was much more beautiful.

I really like Len and Loree – we all get along super.

Len and Loree as we entered Colorado. 1976.