It cooled off nicely last night, and it was great to sleep
in a real bed in a real bedroom in a real house, my first time since Sun
Valley. Made me a bit homesick actually. Dawn is getting earlier as I travel east in
the Mountain Time Zone, and as I had fallen asleep at 9, by 5 AM is was getting
light and I just dozed until I could smell the bacon cooking for breakfast down
stairs. Sandy is a great host, and was
up and getting breakfast ready for me and Steve.
A great big ranch breakfast, eggs, bacon, potatoes and
pancakes, with home made wild cherry syrup, yum! I was off by 720, and planned to do just 50
miles today into the headwind. The cold
front had come through, and it was cool and cloudy, a real joy, despite the
headwind. After the last few days of
convection oven temps and headwinds, it was nice to just pedal along, albeit
more slowly than I would have liked.
A little under two hours and I found myself in Malta,
another of the improbably named towns along the Hi Line route. It bears no resemblance to its namesake, nor
can any of the its namesake’s foods be found here, even in the Albertson’s. This Albertson’s has no deli, sparse fresh
fruit and vegetables, but very helpful staff.
Got buns and lunchmeat, and bananas (bananas are ubiquitous
so far, something to be grateful for), and cash back, and headed out side. I took a little tour around town, and Malta’s
best days, like almost all the towns up here, are well past. Typical aging population, lots of abandoned
houses, most retail places closed up, streets and sidewalks unmaintained,
looking a lot like you might imagine a town had been depopulated by some
disease, like people just left in a hurry.
Then it was back onto the plains, the endless plains. I was a bit excited to be riding on an old
decommissioned stretch of US 2 for a few miles, as it passed the Bowdoin
National Wildlife Refuge. I went past
some of the first nicely maintained farm houses I’ve seen on this side of the
Rockies, and followed the road until…..oh no, bad gravel ahead, just as I found
the entrance to the refuge.
I went to the Visitor Center, which was improbably lovely
and new (clearly Max Baucus has been bringing home the federal bacon) and much
nicer than any refuge I’ve seen in California.
Turns out this refuge is on an old piece of the Missouri River that was
abandoned when the last ice sheet pushed the river 50 miles south, and directed
it away from Hudson Bay, where it used to head.
I talked to one of the refuge officers, and it turns out
that many east bound cyclists show up at the refuge, because the Adventure
Cycling Association map apparently says this is a good alternate route. It’s not, so beware! The only reasonable way out was to back track
two miles and ride two miles of gravel back to US 2. The gravel was quite loose so it was slow
going, but all in all it was a bit of a nice diversion from the endless
headwind and pedaling along the highway.
As I crested a long, gentle climb, the views opened up, and
I spied a cyclist a mile or so ahead on the other side of the road. As you do, we stopped to chat. John is a retired physician from near Sault Ste.
Marie, Canada, living on St Joseph’s Island.
He’d been on the road a month or so, and been as frustrated by the
mosquitos as I have. He also has given
up on camping, as none of the campgrounds along this route have any indoor
place to hide from the bugs, and the only alternative is to be a prisoner of
your tent.
It felt good to commiserate with another solo cyclist, and
we were reluctant to part, but off we went, John to the west (and his terminus,
Calgary) and me to the east, and the promise of a motel in Saco, another 15
miles distant.
After last night’s epiphany concerning surviving the plains,
I spun along, looking at the plants, smelling the smells, and admiring the
profusion of growth in this country that experiences almost 9 months of below
freezing temperatures.
Today when I stopped to take pictures, the cool temps and the
wind kept the bugs at bay, and I got off some good shots.
After another hour and a bit, I finally spied the elevators
that signal the next town, and Saco appeared on the horizon. It’s another of the sad, blow away towns out
here, with a nice little park next to their National Historic Monument 30s gas
station. The Saco Motel has seen better
days, but it’s clean, tidy and cheap! ($40/night for one person and the
internet works great). The owner was
out, but the lady who owns the café next door checked me in, and after looking
at some emails, eating a sandwich, and taking a shower, I fell fast
asleep.
The nap was a good antidote for the feeling of hopelessness
that this part of my trip would ever end.
I’m still chafing at the idea of only making 50 miles a day across the
plains, because I had counted on a tailwind to power me across here. And my delayed entry into Williston to a week
night is making it very iffy that I will find a hotel room. Happily, I’ve been in contact with a couple
who are on Warm Showers and they’ve offered me a shower and tent camping in
their backyard. Ah, life’s lessons,
things never turn out just the way you expect.
I’m writing this up in the local bar, which turns out to be
quite nice, with a pressed tin ceiling and a lovely wooden bar that dates to
the 1920s, which was probably the last time there was any real prosperity
here. Sadly, they don’t offer much in
the way of food options, just frozen stuff microwaved, or a cooked burger (my
choice). The bartender is lovely, recently
moved here from Klamath Falls, Oregon.
It seems that eastern Montana beckons to the folks of interior Oregon
and Idaho.
There are four local guys here, one other woman, and
me. I’m guessing the usual number for a
Thursday night, although the bartender tells me that she usually closes up
around 2 am, then drives 42 miles home to Glasgow, which is tomorrow’s
destination.
And just to add a little more atmosphere, another 100 car
train is racing through town, with hundreds of containers, no doubt headed for
the Port of Seattle.
Just as I left the bar, three young cyclists, Ken and Amy
from Vancouver, and their friend Matt from England, appeared, looking pretty
worn out. They’d done 70+ miles in the
wind at an average of around 12 mph.
Between their youth and being able to draft, they’d done quite a bit
better than my 10.2! It seems they’ve
taken to yelling at the prairie too, and they are also sick of the unexpected
headwinds.
I wanted to linger and chat, but I also feel like I really
need to write tonight, so I bid them goodnight as they headed into the
bar. I envied them their camaraderie a
bit, as suffering is so much sweeter when you can suffer with someone! Perhaps I’ll see them at breakfast in the
morning before heading out. They also
plan to hit Glasgow tomorrow night, so I might run into them there.
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