Days 17, 18, 19, 20 Great Plains Part 1: Eastern Montana

The Great Plains... a name that can be taken in a few sense. Plain, as in the traditional sense, a broad flat grassland; plane, as in a mathematical sense, a perfectly flat shape that stretches on for infinity; plain, as in plain, simple, boring, nothing to do, dull; or plane, as in "the winds were so strong the first three days in the plains that we flew along like and Air Plane". Okay, perhaps that's a lame pun, but I had to try.

Since we traveled so quickly through the plains, and since I'm so many days behind, I'm going to try to be brief as a chronicle our adventures across this expanse. But then, as you have probably noticed, I'm not very good at being brief. So here goes with my best shot:

JUNE 25 East Glacier to Chester MT

The morning of June 25 was the last time we've seen Jerry, Greg, or Caroline. Greg and Caroline got out of camp first that morning because a raccoon got into their supplies and ate all of their breakfast food; Jerry was last out of camp that morning, as he took the time to entertain a small crowd of people from the RV park, all fascinated by his recumbent bicycle. All of them decided to ride a shorter day, while the rest of us pushed ahead.

The amazing tail-wind that blew us into East Glacier blew us out as well, carrying us into the Great Plains. I must admit, I had heard horror stories about the plains: stories about broad stretches of grass, both the color and shape of a piece of cardboard; stories about absolutely no trees, no water, and no people as far as the eye can see; stories about terrible head-winds that assault you whatever direction you try to cross the plains. I have to say right now, all of that is wrong. Perhaps it was the time of year, or the fact that we had a wonderful tail-wind, but my impression of the plains was quite different: the grass was green, covered in sheets of wild flowers, ponds appeared by the roadside, and the our route rolled up and down over gentle hills. There was even the occasional tree or bend in the road.

We stopped atop a small rise outside of town and looked back at the Rockies, still huge behind us. "How long do you think until they disappear?" I asked in a small voice.

"Ahh, I'd give it about 100 miles." Steve said. As we rode on, I watched the mountains shrink in my mirror, growing blue and fuzzy with distance. It only took about 50 miles for them to dip behind a small hill and vanish entirely. The plains had swallowed us.

Seventy miles in, at the town of Shelby (our intended end point for the day) we stopped for lunch, and decided the tail winds were too good to waste. That evening, we pushed on another 40 miles into the town of Chester (this is where we lost Jerry, Caroline, and Greg: they all decided to stay in Shelby for the night). The last forty miles pushed our total distance for the day over 100 miles, my first century ever! Even with the wind, I the last couple of miles were difficult, but I made it, and since then we've done at least 5 more centuries... I've stopped counting.

In Chester, I dropped off my bags at the city park, and immediately headed off to find the library. I pulled up in front of the little building at 4:58. The sign said that it closed at 5:00. Disappointed, I turned around and began to walk my bike away, when a short, skinny woman with curly hair walked out the door. "Are you looking to use a computer?"

"I was, but it looks like you're about to close."

"Oh, don't worry about it. I'll be here for a while and I try to never turn away cyclists." She led me inside and sat me down at a computer. This was the beginning of a trend of nice people on the great plains.

About 20 minutes later, I saw 2 more bikes pull up, and in walked a pair of very talkative girls in their mid-twenties. One looked at me and immediately said, "I know that look!" She too wore lycra shorts, a jersey, and had tan lines from her helmet and gloves. They had soon made friends with the librarians, who told them where to get a shower (at the city pool) and where to find some free cake ("There's a wedding going on at the Methodist church. I'm sure they won't notice if you slip in the bag and take a slice or two of cake.") I need to start talking to more of the locals!

We went out to dinner that night in a little bar/casino. As I walked in, Michael looked up at me, "If anyone asks you, Seth, you're 18." I must have looked at least that old, because when the waitress came by with a pitcher of beer, she brought me a glass along with everyone else. I chose to stick with lemonade.

The waitress there had a really good sense of humor. Steve, trying to be funny, asked her to blow on his chicken to cool it off. "Blow on your what?" She asked indignantly, "Oh, on your chicken. I most certainly won't blow on your chicken." She flashed him a smile as she trotted away. Later, she came out while Steve was in the bathroom to clear our plates, "Anyone here want any apple pie ala mode?" She asked. We all declined politely. "Well good, because I don't have any. I just wanted to sound official. If you do run down to the store for some pie, be sure to grab me a piece."

When Steve returned, Bill told him there was apple pie. "Oh boy!" Steve said excitedly, "And you didn't get any? I can't believe you turned that down! That sounds great!" He waited a second, "Uh-oh, maybe she's in there doing the bill right now!" He ran into the back room to place his order, and all of us erupted into laughter. "You rats!" he said when returned a few minutes later. Back at the campsite we met Jim and Peter, another father-son team crossing the country, and then we all went to bed pretty early.

JUNE 26 Chester to Harlem MT

The 26th was really just a typical day on the plains: we woke up early, rode about 100 miles until late in the afternoon, then set up camp and went out to dinner. The road was speckled with multiple 'plains towns' that all looked the same: first, a dark smudge would be visible on the horizon from miles away; as we rode closer, the smudge would resolve into a clump of trees, the only trees visible all around, with a giant silver water tower looming above them; closer still, and the stocky gray forms of the grain elevators would come into view. Most of these 'plains towns' had gravel roads, a small city park, and maybe a post office, a bar, or a convenience store. They also usually had a train that ran right through the middle of town. The trains in the great plains are long and frequent; almost every campspot we've stayed at has been within spitting distance of the tracks. The joke now is that we'll never be able to get to sleep again without the rumble of steam engines and the blare of their horns.

JUNE 27 Harlem to Glasgow MT

We had trouble lighting our stove to make breakfast because the winds were so strong on the 27th. Dad was amazed that I had slept soundly all night: apparently there had been people skate boarding, some shouting, and a tremendous wind that shook the tents; Steve actually got out and moved his tent out of the wind, it was so bad. We later found out that Pat was the only other person to sleep soundly all night. Another joy of being a teenager.
Luckily, the wind decided to stick with us all day, coming out of the west in huge gusts. We averaged over 15mph all day, which sounds slow, but is phenomenal for a loaded bike. Beside the wind, little remarkable happened on the 27th, barring two situations:

First, there was a 6 mile (accounts vary from 4 to 6 miles, but 6 sounds most impressive) stretch of road past the town of Dodson that was under construction. Our first warning signal was our least favorite sign: an orange diamond, with the words "pavement ends" stenciled on in black paint. For the next couple of miles, we road through a mixture of packed dirt and gravel, moving about in search of the smoothest section. The gravel was hardest on Jim and Peter whose wheels are the thinnest; we soon pulled ahead of them and didn't see them again until lunch (we had been riding with them before the gravel.)

Second, we found our first Dairy Queen of the trip, in the town of Malta, 1104 miles and 19 days from Anacortes. Pat, Bill, and Dave were already there when we got there, and as we were ordering, Michael and Steve showed up. "We thought we'd find you here!" Steve exclaimed. They didn't stay for ice cream, though, because they had already had a large second breakfast (mind, DQ was our second breakfast!)

The wind carried us 120 miles that day, the longest ride any of us but Dave had ever done solo; we even made it in by three, because the winds were so strong. We arrived at camp in Glasgow and told we could set up in a side yard, but we had to wait for it to be mowed first. A big Native American man wearing a ripped shirt showed up with the lawn mower, "So, where're you comin' from?" he asked to make conversation.

"Harlem." we told him.

"Harlem? And you survived? I'm native and I won't even go there!" He started mowing the lawn, shaking his head as he went about it (Harlem is a town on an Indian Reservation; all throughout Montana we were warned about staying in any town on a reservation, particularly Browning or Poplar; this was the first we'd heard about Harlem. Besides some pesky mosquitos, which drove us into our tents around 7, the town seemed pretty pleasant.) The man also gave us a recommendation for breakfast the next morning: Bergie's in Nashua, ten miles up the road. "They have pancakes there so big, I can't even finish one!" We laughed when he said this, all thinking the same thing: he's not riding 120 miles in a day!

JUNE 28 Glasgow to Culbertson MT

It was nice waking up that morning in Glasgow: we didn't have to boil water or wash bowls. We packed up our tents, nibbled on a poptart to tide us over, then hit the road, heading for Bergie's diner in Nashua. As we rode up to the diner, Pat stood waiting on the doorstep for us, "They have a biker breakfast!" he called, "it comes with two large pancakes, 3 eggs, 3 sausages, hash browns, orange juice, and coffee!"

We eagerly led us inside, where Dave greeted us next, "Yes, Bill and Pat took the challenge. They ordered the Biker's Trek Breakfast, and plan on eating two of the pancakes." one of the locals grinned at this, already knowing their fate, "myself, I'm not man enough." Michael, Dad, and I weren't man enough either, although the breakfast I ordered did include on pancake.

We soon learned that the Native American man wasn't exaggerating his story: the waitress came out carrying a small plate loaded with eggs and sausage in one hand, and a huge blue disk piled with two pancakes in the other, "Sorry, the next one won't come for a while; the biker's trek always takes a while to make."

"You mean that's only one?!" Bill asked, eyeing the pancakes that were easily as large as pizzas, a foot and a half across, and an inch thick each.

The waitress smirked and nodded, "That's why I was surprised that your table ordered two of them!" Five minutes later she returned with a second set of plates which she set in front of Pat. Together, Bill and Pat's meals covered the entire table, forcing Dave to find somewhere else to eat. Both Bill and Pat made valiant efforts to finish their meal, plowing first through the eggs, sausages, and hashbrowns, and then beginning on the pancakes. Half way through his pancakes, Pat went to the bathroom, perhaps hoping to generate some extra space for his meal. While he was away, Bill slipped most of one pancake to Michael.

Pat returned to find Bill's pancakes two-thirds gone, "You've eaten all that?" he asked, dismayed. Bill nodded, and Pat redoubled his efforts, determined not to be out eaten by a 59 year-old. Neither one finished their breakfast; with Michael's help, Bill ate about as much as Pat ate by himself, but both had at least half of a pancake left on their plates. It was only after Pat had stuffed himself nearly to the bursting that Bill revealed the secret to his eating. "Agghhhh..." Pat moaned, "You mean I didn't really have to eat all that?" They both didn't really eat again until dinner.

The weather was pretty nasty for riding that day: hot with a vicious side wind. The wind is what caused my first, and hopefully only, crash of the trip (well, perhaps that's just me making an excuse... the wind helped to cause my crash). The shoulders in Montana are mostly chip sealed, making them very bumpy, with long patches of rumble strips; I was riding along a narrow path of smooth pavement just next to the side of the road, when I was caught by a gust of wind. My bike was pushed into the gravel, leaving me to wobble for a second before crashing to earth. Luckily, besides some minor scrapes (the pictures are of the ones on my elbow and hip; there was another on my knee, but the picture didn't turn out well), the only things really hurt were my confidence and pride. Dad had a perfect I-told-you-so moment as well, "I'm glad you're okay, but now WILL YOU STAY OUT OF THE FREAKING GRAVEL!" He was shouting, but also smiling at the same time.

The rest of the day went poorly as the miles wore on and the winds tired us out. Michael was hit especially hard, because his knee was hurting again, and the endless hours in the saddle were wearing on his butt. When we stopped for lunch with Pat, Bill, and Dave, he decided to push on in hopes of making it into camp a little early. Riding and talking with Pat certainly made the last forty miles feel easier. Four miles from Culbertson, our destination, a pickup pulled to a stop next to us, "Anybody need a ride?" He asked, "There's a pretty nasty hill coming up on the way to Culbertson."

"No way!" Bill said indignantly, the military part of his life coming to the fore, "we've come 98 miles today. There's no way any of us are giving up now!"

"Actually," Dave interjected rather quietly, whose leg and back had been hurting for much of the ride. "I might want to take you up on that." He loaded his recumbent into the back of the truck, then climbed up next to the driver, "What was your name?" he asked.

"Jim Hellmer." He supplied.

"There you go." Dave said jokingly, looking back at us, "If I disappear, you know who to look for."

In the city park in Culbertson, where we were camping for the night, we met a new cyclist, Reverend Hans, a well tanned man, wearing a parti-colored jersey. He walked over to us when we arrived to introduce himself, "Hello. I can't believe thewe awe so many cyclists hewe. You'we the fiwst I've seen all twip." (If you can't tell by my writing, he lisped slightly when he spoke). The reverend was a most interesting man, who said he rode 16,000 miles a year for something he called "pedalling for prayers", and was on the road more than he was at home.

"What is is you do on the road?" I asked, "what's you're Pedalling for Prayers program?"

"Weh-ll, I do whatevew the Lord tells me... evangelize, disastew welief, pwreaching." On top of his lisp, he had a slight southern accent.

Later, dad started talking to the reverend, "So where're you from?"

"Geowgia." He replied.

"Ohh, Jimmy Carter country." Dad said

"Weh-ll, he li-eve jest a ways fwom my house. But lots of us don't like him much. He's expwessing sum vewy un-Amewrican opinons."

"Isn't that what being an American's about?" dad asked, "expressing opinions?"

The reverend stammered for a moment, "Weh-ll, he's sticking his nose whewe it doesn't belong. He's talking to the wrong people in the Middle East. He jest knows the New Testament. Only a New Testament guy. He doesn't know what he's doing in the Middle East 'cause he doesn't wead the Old Testament." the reverend made it all sound very final. Despite our minor political disagreements, I found the reverend a very friendly and kind, if rather eccentric person. Still, what he's doing is good, and he's doing it by bicycle... power to him!