Havre, MT to Duluth, MN
The warnings, from white folks, about the coming ride through the Fort Peck Indian Reservation, started on the second day of my trip. I had begun from Havre the previous day when the Amtrak “Empire Builder” dropped me and my bicycle off on the station siding at around 3 p.m. The plan had been to get my bike reassembled from its packed and stripped down configuration, load my panniers and ride to the Havre post office to mail my train travel things to Continental Ski & Bike in Duluth, to the attention of store manager Andre. Unfortunately the train arrived a bit behind schedule, it took me longer than planned to get everything squared away and by the time I was ready to head over to the post office it was their closing time according to the station manager.
I tried the local bike shop to see if they could help but a sign on the door saying the shop was closed so that the owner could attend a funeral put that idea to rest. So reluctantly I strapped the football-sized fabric carrying case that my bike had been packed into for the train trip onto the aerobars, my empty travel duffel onto the top of my rear panniers and everything else I wanted to mail into the backpack I used for my carry on things while riding the train for nearly two days from Albany, NY. I stopped at a Cenex convenience store on my way out of town. A store patron noticed my overloaded appearance and commented on it. I explained things weren't going according to plan and that I hoped to remedy the situation the next morning at the post office in Chinook about 22 miles away. Fortunately there was a tailwind and the road was fairly flat and relatively straight so the sluggish steering from my overloaded front end was not too hard to manage.
Adventure Cycling Association (ACA) maps for their Northern Tier route are a bit pricey at $15 each. Since I required three of them for sections 3-5 of the route, the total, with the price of the shipping, came to about $50. I wasn't convinced they were worth it until I noticed that under the “camping” note for Chinook was the mention that cyclists could camp for free in the town's Griffin Park if permission was obtained from the local police. Noticing patrol officer Olsen at the coffee dispenser when I went in to the Town Pump convenience store, I asked him politely if the information I had was correct. He told me I had permission to set up my tent there and gave me directions to the park on the south side of town. Considering the price of a campground tent site I figured that handy piece of otherwise unobtainable information had paid me back for at least the first map section. Officer Olsen even stopped by later to see if I had everything I needed for a comfortable night's sleep.
I usually sleep in a hammock when I can find two trees spaced about 9' apart. The cottonwoods in Griffin Park were very wide and though I might have been able to make a hammock pitch possible between a couple of them I decided to try the ground sleeping option since I expected I'd be forced to use it more often than not until I reached the end of the open plains. Using one cottonwood to suspend the upper end of my tarp I staked out the three other corners of its diamond-shape. I placed my Tyvek ground cloth and bivy sack with my light down bag inside the A-framed lean-to shape of the tarp. It seemed like it would be a cool enough night that I would not need the mosquito netting. In fact it turned out to be quite a cool night and made the decision to sleep on the ground an even better one, though I'm never quite as comfortable sleeping on the ground as I am in the hammock, at least on warm nights.
The next morning I visited the Town Pump again for breakfast which had an actual grill and menu of made-to-order options. I was pleasantly surprised, expecting more of the pre-made breakfast sandwich type of selection. After breakfast I visited the post office and was able to fit all of the necessary items in the largest of their available boxes. I enclosed a reminder of my phone conversation suggesting Andre as the nominal recipient, along with my expected arrival time, inside the top flap with an announcement of that fact written on the outside. After the postmistress had taken my package I visited the nearby library and found a book to read for the journey inside their bargain box in the alcove. I used their computer to post a couple of photos and an update to my Facebook page and then started off following U.S. Route 2 east toward whatever town I could reach that day, given the wind direction and my level of fitness. In this case it was the town of Malta that I rolled into sometime in the late afternoon. Midway through the ride I stopped at the Fort Belknap Indian Reservation visitor's center and poked around through the exhibits and purchased a t-shirt with the reservation seal on the front.
I stopped first at the Dairy Queen in Malta. I had the name of a Warmshowers host who lived in the town. I had not made any prior arrangement to stay with him since I wasn't sure I would be spending the night in Malta but I decided to call his number and see what he had to say. It turned out he was out of town but happy to give me directions to the town park which permitted camping for a modest fee. He also recommended Eugene's, a pizza place to visit when I passed through Glasgow further along on Rt. 2.
The camping spot was at the town's Trafton Park, and it was while looking for a suitable hammocking spot, that I received my first warning about “the Rez.” There was a fellow exercising his gun dogs and we got into a conversation and, after describing my plans, he cautioned me to get across the reservation in one day, if possible. It wasn't a good place to spend the night he said. When I mentioned that I hoped to make it somewhere short of Wolf Point the following day he said that was in the middle of the reservation. I wasn't sure what to make of the warning but kept it in mind all the same.
Breakfast in Malta was obtained at The Hitchin' Post restaurant. The wind from Chinook to Malta had been very favorable and I expected it to continue as such so I texted my Warmshowers host for the night in Glasgow with the thought that I might be passing through town too early in the day to want to stop for the night and hoped it wasn't an inconvenience if I didn't stay as originally planned. As it turned out the wind wasn't quite so favorable and became more of a crosswind than a tailwind. I found the road had more ups and downs than previously and the heat was more oppressive. All told it seemed like I might be getting to Glasgow at just about the right time to spend the night after all. I had been back and forth with my potential host, Leslie Bishop, who also had advised me not to get too far onto the reservation before dark. I made a stop mid-afternoon at a roadhouse alongside the highway and when a couple of the patrons found out what my plans were, they too, advised against stopping on the reservation. They particularly mentioned Poplar as a place to avoid.
One other piece of information they shared was a confirmation of something I'd heard at the Dairy Queen in Malta. A father of some young children had asked me what my plans were, he being a cyclist himself, and when I mentioned heading south from Wolf Point to follow the Northern Tier route he said I should probably just stay on Rt. 2 since it went all the way into Duluth. When I mentioned that the ACA had rerouted the northern tier a couple of years before due to the surge of truck traffic from the frack fields around Williston, ND he said that was not such an issue any more. The patrons of the roadhouse repeated that opinion and said the shoulders were wide all through that area. They added their opinion that I should just stay on Rt. 2 which is referred to as the “Hi-Line” in those parts.
I reached Glasgow as the day was ending. Even if it hadn't been, I was tired enough to want to stop for the night. Leslie was very gracious to have put up with all of my waffling and though a prepared dinner was not part of the bargain anymore she was still willing to let me camp in her backyard and recommended a place to go get pizza and beer near her house. The location for the latter was the Busted Knuckle Brewery, a brewpub located in a renovated garage and owned by the former mechanic who once operated it for actual car repair, but found his hobby of beer-making to be a more rewarding occupation. He maintained the mechanic theme in both the name and décor of the pub, which seemed to be very popular. The pizza was ordered from the very same Eugene's, only a couple of blocks away, and brought to the table by their delivery guy.
While we were at the table some of Leslie's friends stopped by and when I mentioned my plans, they added to the litany of warnings by saying I shouldn't spend the night on the reservation. At this point I wondered just what I would do if I couldn't get all the way across the reservation in one day, the distance being just under 100 miles with my longest day thus far being only about 70. Of course I could always turn south in Wolf Point and ride away from the reservation following the Northern Tier reroute. I guess I would just have to see what made the most sense when I made it to Wolf Point.
The morning started early. After a family photo of Leslie, her two boys and their dog Freckles, I rode up to the Cottonwood Inn which was hosting a Kiwanis fundraising breakfast at which Jackson, Leslie's oldest, would be waiting on tables as part of his Webelos Scout community service project. I was one of the first people in line. Jackson waited on my table. I wished him a good year at school, which drew a distinct look of disapproval. Oh well, how else should a teacher issue good wishes? My table mate was a retired farmer from Lustre, MT. When later looking for Lustre I found that it was smack dab in the middle of the Fort Peck Reservation. He never mentioned anything about avoiding the coming night in the Rez but the conversation didn't ever turn that way.
The fickle wind had shifted in my favor and was steady and strong. I reached the Wolf Point Town Pump station in early afternoon. That was nearly 50 miles in under three hours of riding. I rarely had gone so far, so fast on a bike tour before. It was decision time. While nursing a fountain drink I studied the ACA map, the Montana state road map as well as a “Cycling the Big Sky” map compiled by the Montana DoT with roadway data for bicyclists. It was very useful showing things like average truck and total traffic data for selected sections of roads as well as shoulder widths and the presence of rumble strips along the shoulders.
The biggest factor in the process was the wind and road direction. To stay on Rt. 2 meant a continued boost from the wind, which I recorded in my journal felt like I was “drafting a TdF racer the entire way,” versus following Rt. 13 south to Circle which meant 50 miles of strong crosswinds pushing me out into traffic on a road that even ACA admitted had “minimal” shoulders. The Big Sky map rated them at 0-2' for part of the distance and also showed a series of hills with 2.5-5% grades and one with >5% where the road climbed out of the Missouri River drainage. There were no places to stay between Wolf Point and Circle except the town of Vida, which was 23 miles south and a likely stopping place given how much fun I'd be having with the crosswind and lack of shoulders.
Saying good bye to the ACA route was difficult. I wished I'd purchased one of the older maps printed before the reroute since it would have clued me in to the intangibles at least as far as Minot, ND where even the old route had left the Hi-Line. There really wasn't much of a debate when it came down to it. I had ten days to get to Duluth if I wanted to be on time to catch the bus that would take me to the train in St. Paul. I had pre-purchased non-refundable tickets for both. Being able to ride extra miles while bike touring is like putting money in the bank. You never know when you might be called upon to pay out on some of that capital and not having it if needed is an uncomfortable thought. It was a reasonable assumption that with the wind at my back I ought to be off the Rez by 6 p.m. I would need to ride as far as Culbertson to get to a convenience store and hopefully find a town park to sleep in. It was 54 miles from Wolf Point to Culbertson. I decided it was worth the gamble.
Everything went well. The road was die straight pointing due east. The wind continued to blow quite strongly out of the west. Red Bull couldn't have given me more of the feeling of having wings. The road shoulder was wide enough for comfort. I was making good time and then the strangest part of the trip happened. As I was riding at a very respectable speed the driver of an oncoming white SUV, which might have been a Ford Bronco, slowed down, came to a complete stop in his lane and yelled through his open window asking if I needed any assistance. I yelled back that everything was fine but undeterred he came racing backwards at 20+ mph and asked where I was going. I stopped riding. He asked me my name which turned out to be the same as his and intrigued he pulled a U turn onto the shoulder beside me and got out.
It's possible he might have had a few beers which was leading him to be so loquacious but he was pleasant enough and our conversation ran the gamut of me telling him that I was a retired teacher to an offer from him to ferry me east off of the Rez (even he seemed to want me out of there before dark), to finding me some pot, to “hooking me up,” to asking if I'd be willing to be a sponsor for someone in recovery. I gave him my phone number and he gave me his, c/o a “girlfriend.” I bid him adieu and continued on with him passing me a couple of times along the way into Poplar. Despite the advice to “keep on going through Poplar,” I stopped at T.J.'s “Quik Stop.” A very nice young woman cashier filled my water bottle from a jug she pulled out from underneath the counter. I continued on but Poplar did have a skeevy kind of ambiance. There was a burned out motel right beside the highway in the center of town and a catcall or two from passing cars made me remember it was a Saturday and perhaps a time when the populace was not on its best behavior.
Afterward things returned to normal. I made another stop in Brockton and while there the one-armed female cashier asked if I knew about the “Fort Kip By-Pass.” Philip, my friend from earlier in the day, had mentioned it and given me some rough landmarks to go by. The cashier said I was close to the turn I'd need to make and gave me more specific directions to find it. As I was getting back on my bicycle two women filling up a car with gas also told me I should use the by-pass. It would save having to climb some hills, according to all of them, and indeed the Big Sky bike map showed a series of 2.5-5% grade symbols just east of Brockton, the only places so marked on the entire length of the Hi-Line from the foot of the Rockies to the North Dakota border.
The by-pass was marked as B.I.A. Rt. 1 which designated it as a Bureau of Indian Affairs road which by law is open to the public since government funds are provided for its maintenance. The A.C.A. map had provided another section of B.I.A. Rt. 1 as an alternative to the Hi-Line back in the Nashua area and I'd followed it for most of the recommended length returning to Rt. 2 a bit earlier than the map suggested as I entered Wolf Point. This was a much more interesting detour and I suspect the pre-rerouted A.C.A. map probably included it. In this case it descended to the Missouri river flood plain and remained relatively level in grade passing some very un-New England like bluffs. I couldn't tell what they were made of but seemed to be of a rock that was too soft to avoid looking like it was being melted away. They were different enough from anything I was familiar with that it caused me to stop and take some photos.
There was a steep climb as the road surmounted one toe of the bluff and I found myself using the middle ring and second to largest rear cog which was the lowest gear needed thus far on the trip. The wind began to die down as the sun became lower on the horizon and I rejoined Rt. 2 and immediately crossed a rather small creek labeled “Big Muddy.” It gave me a momentary chuckle to imagine the Lilliputian size of whatever nearby creek might be called the “Little Muddy.” The creek must have been the eastern boundary of the reservation because a sign on the side of the road announced that I was leaving it. I called Faye to tell her I'd made it off the Rez and expected to spend the night five miles away in Culbertson.
Another climb led to a long gradual descent into Culbertson which was illuminated by lights from the high school football field. The Culbertson Cowboys were hosting the Circle Wildcats. It was the homecoming game for the Cowboys and their fans. Even without the benefit of an A.C.A. map to guide me I was still able to find a town park which, too, had camping spaces and restrooms. I had purchased something at the convenience store in town to warm up on my alcohol stove and used the picnic table underneath a canopy to perform the operation. I heard the announcer at the football field give a final score of 16-12 with the unhappy home team on the short end of the equation. At about 10:30 I strung up my hammock between two of the posts on the canopy, pitched my tarp over the hammock to block the nearby streetlight and went to sleep. Mileage for the day was 104.99 miles from the Cottonwood Inn to there.
Not being sure my use of the canopy supports would be appreciated I was packed and riding off to look for breakfast before the neighborhood was up and moving on that Sunday morning. I found it at the Wild West Diner on 6th St. East, a.k.a. Rt. 2, a.k.a. the Hi-Line. After breakfast I returned to the picnic area restroom to get dressed for the ride having not yet donned my riding shorts, etc. preferring to look less like a guy in lycra when I went into a cowboy diner for bacon and eggs. The wind was still out of the west and before I knew it I had reached the North Dakota state line. The road shoulder went from modest to full size upon entering N.D. It stayed so all the way into Williston. The road went from flat to rolling but the wind pushed me up most of the hills.
When I reached Williston I went into a hipster cafe for an overpriced pastry and cup of coffee. It might have been expensive but was an interesting contrast to absorb in the middle of cowboy country. Prior to finding the cafe I had rolled through the Sunday-quiet streets of Williston only to be waved off from turning right outside a local bar which was serving as a backdrop for a motorcycle magazine photo shoot complete with the required scantily clad babe and Harley hog. The waitress and barista at the cafe gave me directions for the best route out of town as well as to the nearest A.T.M. They weren't sure it was a Bank of America. It wasn't and I was coming to realize those weren't very common west of Chicago.
Continuing north I felt the wind had really picked up and wondered what its speed might be. I went left toward the Williston airport figuring if anyone could tell me the windspeed it would be someone connected with an airfield. I did get my answer, 35 m.p.h., with stronger gusts, but it came via an airport employee who just consulted her smartphone. One bonus of the visit was a map carousel that had state road maps of North Dakota as well as ones for the local county, free for the taking. I studied the county map with interest because Rt. 2 appeared to be taking a 15 mile left turn due north. That many miles with a vicious crosswind was not my cup of tea. The county roads were all laid out in grid fashion and by zigging and zagging along their network I could take a more diagonal course, albeit still northerly for the same overall distance but for briefer stretches interspersed with jet-propelled easterly ones.
I did have some trouble making a connection between the county road network and the city map inset. At one point I asked a mother of a car full of a wide age range of children who was standing outside of her minivan, “which way to X county road?” She was able to steer me in the right direction largely by pointing to some prominent hills of sand in the distance and saying I would need to climb past them. She also warned me that a detour was going to be required around a section of road in the town of Springbrook which had a washed-out dam. I didn't want to detour and figured I'd make a decision about that when I arrived at the closure sign though I didn't express that thought out loud.
When I arrived at the detour sign the road I was being directed to take had a loose gravel surface whereas the road through Springbrook remained paved. I think the prospect of trying to steer a straight line in loose gravel while being pummeled on my left shoulder by strong gusts was enough to inspire me to take the gamble of riding on toward the dam breach and see what a guy on a bicycle could do about getting around the problem area. It was a Sunday so I figured there wouldn't be any active work going on and no workmen to antagonize by my antics.
The road had been built to cross the top of the dam spillway which had been washed out during some earlier freshet. The spillway was being reconstructed and the bridge that once spanned it was gone. There was a heavy equipment track that went to the bottom of the spillway on my side but none that climbed back up the bank on the other. There was a potential route for me to carry the bicycle all the same and so I rode down to the small stream flowing from the impounded reservoir through some kind of outlet at the dam's base, rock hopped across it, and shouldering my bike, started up the other side. The climb was much less steep if I stayed in the tall coarse grass on the hillside directly in front of me and so I didn't return to the road immediately but continued up the hill in a parallel line with the road.
Stepping through the tall grass, which was growing out of a rocky kind of rubble surface, I wondered how possible it might be to surprise a rattlesnake. I had seen one squashed on the highway back in Montana. This could possibly be the one flaw in my plan. I chose my steps carefully and eventually returned to the road after skirting a chain link fence enclosing a drill field and stepping over a two strand fence at the road's edge.
Once back on the road I continued on my wind-assisted ride east, eventually turning north to enter the town of Epping. That northward jog was interesting because the wind was so fierce I was reduced to a near crawl and was continually fighting to stay upright and pointed in a straight line. Epping had appeared on some kind of promotional brochure I'd run across previously and made its claim to fame as the home of the Buffalo Trails Museum. I wondered if I could visit the museum but discovered that, being past the height of tourist season, things appeared to be quite quiet, in fact, pretty dead. The museum, it turned out, consisted of almost the entire center of town, at least all of the buildings along its unpaved main street appeared to be part of the exhibit. I took a couple of pictures and then rode on, soon turning east again to later make one final northward leg through Wheelock and then rejoin Rt. 2.
That last northern leg convinced me that it would have been impossible to have ridden against such a wind. If such had been my unlucky dilemma I realized I would have had to lay low for the day and hope for a shift in wind direction, either that or try to make my miles during the night when the wind speed was less violent. I wondered if it might have been possible in such a situation to fashion some kind of full faring for the front of the bike with a large piece of cardboard and some zip ties. Perhaps that or a campaign poster made from coroplast. Being the September lead up to the Nov. 8 presidential elections I might have been able to liberate a Trump/Pence poster which were fairly common. There were no Clinton/Kaine posters to be seen. Altogether none of those thoughts were reassuring. I would just have to remain grateful that the worst I was being exposed to was a broadside attack and the best was from directly behind. The combination was sufficient to carry me 121 miles that day.
My stop for the night was the town of Stanley. I found an overnight park that permitted camping and had some trees that would support the hammock. The wind continued quite strong through the evening but the trees provided some shelter. The temperatures dropped into the low 40s by morning and I felt it necessary to put on gloves, earmuffs and a hat as I packed up. I was able to warm up nicely at Joyce's Cafe in the center of town as I listened to the conversation about NDSU Bison football. Some of the customers had been to a game the day before.
The wind continued out of the west all day which moved me along at an average speed of 17.6 mph and that included all the noodling in Minot where I stopped to use the library Internet and visited a bike shop to get a stem raise so the average speed on the open road would have been higher than that. The road was essentially level and when there were climbs they were gradual and gentle. In my journal I wrote: “Never had a string of days like this on a bike before. Great for the ego.”
The mechanic at Val's Cyclery in Minot used his phone to call up the wind predictions for the next couple of days. It seemed like a weather change was coming in later in the day and overnight and the wind wouldn't be so favorable with the change. My distance for the day was 86 miles when I stopped for the night in Granville, ND. One discomforting discovery was the end of wide shoulders a few miles out of Minot. The highway continued as a four lane but, with no paved shoulder and, a rumble strip right beside the fog line, I was forced to ride on the far right side of the slower lane. Occasionally the rumble strip would be located on top of the fog line leaving about a foot of clear pavement outboard of it. In that case I rode outside the line but inevitably the strip would drift back outside the line and I was forced to cross over to the inside of it. With highway traffic moving at over 60 mph it was a bit nerve wracking. Luckily the unwaveringly straight road was good for spotting me from a distance and every car and truck made the shift to the left-hand passing lane to go around me. I just kept hoping the wider shoulder would come back before too long.
Granville had a town RV park and it was largely unoccupied when I arrived except for a couple with a small car and a tent. The husband, who's name was Larry, told me he and his wife were touring the country after he had decided to quit his job. They had been on the road for more than a month and were slowly working their way back to their home in New Jersey. He gave me an ice cold Twisted Tea when I mentioned wistfully that the local convenience store did not sell beer. Man did that hit the spot. He was an amateur photographer who specialized in time exposure shots of the night sky. We exchanged contact info when we parted the next morning as I went off in search of breakfast and he and his wife headed toward the Boundary Waters of Minnesota.
I found breakfast at the Memorial Diner in Granville. It was a friendly, family oriented place which had the look of a Legion or VFW hall from the outside. While riding out from the park I had passed the local high school. Parked outside the school was a mid-80s vintage Chrysler Fifth Avenue sedan dressed up with a John Deere-themed paint job and decals. I made a point of returning to the same spot after leaving the diner on my way back to the highway in order to take a picture of it with the intention of posting it to Facebook and tagging a former student who restores John Deere tractors to see if he liked the paint job on this car.
It was while standing outside the high school taking a picture or two of the car that I had an epiphany. On many of my previous rides I've been asked by people I meet if I am “riding for a cause.” I've always said “No,” in response to that question but it happens frequently enough that the thought came into my head: what, if any, cause could I be motivated to ride for? Looking at this car and wondering about its owner and thinking about my former student an idea came to me. How could someone connect students from across the continent with each other? What would it look like, if so, and could they learn from one another? It was an idea that was to stay with me throughout the rest of the trip.
It was 195 miles to the MN state line from Granville. Before the day ended, I hoped to make it as far as Devil's Lake, which was more than half the distance, but had to settle for Church's Ferry at 84 miles. The road shoulder had not yet widened for any appreciable stretch. Occasionally it would widen but then return to the width that required riding in the travel lane for the cars. There was a Cenex convenience store in Leeds which was the only one for a long stretch to come so I purchased my supper ingredients there and was grateful to have them when I found a picnic table under an awning in Church's Ferry.
I decided to spend the night right there. I found the space between the supports on the awning was wide enough to give the right pitch for the hammock. I needed the mosquito netting for that night but not the tarp. I was grateful for a roof since it did rain during the night and early in the morning. I donned rain gear for the start of the ride. The wind had shifted and was more of a crosswind than from directly behind. Fortunately it wasn't particularly strong but my speed had dropped without the benefit of the incredible tailwind. I found a Dunn Brothers Coffee in Devil's Lake as the place to eat a late breakfast.
Making my plans in Dunn Bros., I hoped I might make it to Turtle River State Park in Arvilla for the night. I even called their number to see if a cabin might be available. Unfortunately if I couldn't get there before 4:30 p.m., there would be no way to register for a cabin. I would need to maintain a 13+ mph pace to make that happen. I decided I would see how it worked out. As it happened I was one town shy of Arvilla when I called it quits for the day. I was pretty tired at that point. During the day the wind had increased in speed and moved more to be a heading crosswind. It still worked out to be a respectable 84 miles.
I found a place for my hammock in some trees near the roadside rest stop in Larimore. The rest room attendant, a woman, had been the one to suggest the trees as a place to get out of sight. She had been very solicitous and offered to help me find a campsite somewhere but I was insistent I needed trees and the nearest campground was an open field RV park which would not have fit the bill. I was too tired to travel much farther, hence the suggestion to find a stealth campsite in the trees. The wind had become very strong by then and I was afraid it might be cold that night. The trees however formed a good windbreak and I actually felt overdressed trying to fall asleep. My feet might have been a bit cold when I woke up but overall I slept well.
I had one interesting encounter before turning in for the night. Another cyclist arrived who had a unique way of parking his bike. He backed it up to a picnic table and lifted the front wheel off the ground and, like a rather bottom-heavy older lady, left it sitting there resting on its bum on the seat to the table. He was carrying all his weight on the rear and it looked like a lot of gear. He had started from Duluth and had taken the Lake Wobegon bike trail south to arrive in Fargo and from there he managed to get a lift up to Grand Forks where he'd started earlier that evening. It was 9 p.m., or later, and he was headed to Devil's Lake, 60 more miles, before quitting for the day. He said it was a “nice night for riding.” The wind was favorable for him so I could understand his desire to keep riding while it was helping. His eventual destination was Whitefish, MT. As far as starting and finishing locations, it was very much like a reverse route of my own.
His name was Matt. We exchanged some things. I gave him some gel energy packs I'd purchased in Minot (since fueling up would be difficult for him because I doubted any of the convenience stores were open 24/7) and he gave me some of his own mix of meusli. It was pretty tasty. There were enough extra added ingredients to minimize the dryness of the oat flakes that make up the preponderance of the straight Swiss-style meusli I'm used to. He also told me that Andre, who was the manager at Continental Ski & Bike, was his cousin. He said to say “Hi” when I got there.
Next morning I found Good Friends Bar and Grill as the place that served breakfast in Larimore center which I reached after a three mile ride south from the highway. The wind was at my back for the ride down there and I had no desire to fight a headwind to return the way I came so, while eating my biscuits and gravy with two eggs over easy (the special), I consulted my ND road map and discovered a county road that would take me east from the center of town, returning me to the highway seven miles away in Arvilla. There wasn't much morning traffic through Good Friends but the few people that entered asked me about my bike ride, having seen the bike parked outside. The question of whether I was “riding for a cause” was posed to me once again. It immediately brought to mind my notion that perhaps I did have a cause I could ride for next year.
The rest of my route that day took me into the city of Grand Forks. I had asked Faye to find the name of a clean, inexpensive place to spend the night. She told me reviews for the America's Best Value Inn were good and the prices were about the cheapest around. I stopped at the city's tourist and convention information office to get directions and was able to get a road map of Minnesota while being informed that the Minnesota side of the city didn't have a similar office. It turned out the inn was just a couple blocks away and the need for directions to a laundromat and library became obsolete when I arrived and learned the inn had both a computer with Internet connection and washer/drier for guest use.
Faye's recommendation of the A.B.V.I. was amply justified. It started before I even crossed the threshold. A couple of the employees were outside grabbing a smoke and welcomed me to the inn. It struck me as having the same feeling as a hiker hostel or similar. I'm always happier in such places. No pretensions. The feeling that my bike would be permitted in the room was immediately established.
I remember one time arriving in Bucksport, ME on the first of my 1,000 mile/2 week bike trips and finding out the last room of a certain motel had been let to the person at the counter in front of me. I expressed regret until the owner, at the desk, described the closest alternative as being a cut below his own establishment by emphasizing that he would never allow a bicycle into one of his rooms, but they probably would. I knew right then I was headed to the proper place and privately harbored gratitude for the near escape.
The room was nice. There was a good continental breakfast the next morning and use of the computer helped me catch up on many tasks and post some pictures to Facebook. Tron Watson was the desk manager who had checked me in so, on his suggestion if I liked the accommodations, I posted a review to Trip Advisor in the following fashion: “Very friendly, helpful staff. Tron W. was especially friendly and willing to help. The breakfast was ample and the room was clean. Another big plus was the laundry facility which I was very grateful for, being a touring bicyclist on my way through the area.”
The one negative aspect of my arrival in Grand Forks was the fact that the wind had shifted to be more from the northeast and had picked up in strength. The area is a potato and beet growing region. The potato harvest was in full swing and while riding into the city I was passed by trucks heaped high with them. The wind was strong enough to blow the occasional one to the roadside and I was afraid the timing might be such that one of them might hit me. Fortunately that didn't happen but the wind was still strong as I left East Grand Forks on the Minnesota side of the Red River.
Riding with a crosswind is not as discouraging as trying to ride into a headwind but it has its own drawbacks. One of them is having to fight to steer a straight line. If a good gust hits you it knocks you off course. A vigorous correction to the windward side will oftentimes be too much as the gust passes and you are then heading off course in the opposite direction. As long as the wind is steady you can reliably compensate for it. Another factor though, is that your own forward motion changes the apparent direction of the wind. The faster you ride the more the wind feels like a headwind. I have aerobars mounted on my mountain flat bars which gives me the opportunity to adopt a lower more aerodynamic position on the bike with my shoulders pulled in. It's not the most stable position for steering though. The correcting I mention above is even more likely to be exaggerated when on the aerobars. Steering becomes more a matter of shifting your center of gravity than turning the bars which you essentially do with your elbows in that case. At any rate trying to stay aerodynamic for longer periods than I usually do and sometimes throwing my weight to the windward side to steady the bike in gusts seemed to have started a soreness in my left knee.
The pain became particularly troublesome towards the end of the day. I was forced to stop and put on my rain gear as a steady rain started falling as I rolled into a convenience store near the 70 mile mark. It had been a long day. Despite taking ibuprofen my knee was still noticeably sore. I bought some simple things to heat up for supper and rode on to a roadside rest area that was marked on the map. There were picnic pavilions and I chose one and heated my supper stuff. I went in to the visitor's building to use the rest room and got into a conversation with the attendant. I was pretty sure this is where I wanted to stop for the night but I was also pretty certain it would not be something I could get permission to do. I would just need to outwait the gentleman. There was a drinking water quality advisory in the building and using that as the reason I was returning to the convenience store back up the road I packed up and left. The attendant pulled out of the rest area right behind me.
I filled up my water bottles at the convenience store and returned to the now empty rest area. I found a pavilion that seemed farthest from any of the streetlights and strung up my hammock and went to sleep. Early in the morning a car rolled in to occupy a nearby parking space and the occupant(s) obviously were using it as an opportunity to get some sleep. I figured I was doing essentially the same thing.
When I left, the morning attendant, a different man of retirement age, had arrived and I could tell from his looks in my direction he did not approve of my choice for a night's stop. The car was still there though I doubted he bore them as much ill will. I rode effortlessly downwind past the convenience store to the center of the town of Erskine and its breakfast spot the Ness Café. For people of a certain vintage, the name would be amusing. While I was eating breakfast the rest area attendant from the previous evening came it to have one of his own. We talked and though I didn't admit I'd spent the night at the rest area I expected he would put two and two together after he spoke with his colleague.
At the rest area the distance given to Bemidji was 53 miles. I wanted to get at least that far but was also going to take it easy to avoid aggravating my knee pain. I experimented with a slightly lower saddle height since in my experience that can often alleviate knee pain. I was skeptical that the height was a factor but I figured it probably wouldn't make it any worse and could possibly improve the situation. I mentioned my dilemma to another customer at a convenience store in Fosston and he gave me a couple of his own Advils saying that's what helped him. Whether it was the saddle height adjustment or other things, the knee pain decreased through the day and was nearly gone by the time I reached Bagley about 25 miles from Bemidji. One thing that helped my morale, if not my knee as well, was riding past a sign welcoming me to “Minnesota Forest Areas.” Roadside trees are a great antidote to crosswinds and the ease of riding grew in proportion to the thickness of the tree stands.
Riding through Bemidji gave me an opportunity to reconnect with the ACA route which followed a series of bike paths in the area. If I had stayed on the original route I probably would have opted for an alternate path in order to more directly reach Walker which marked the end of Northern Tier Section 5 and also my jumping off point for Duluth since the ACA route turned south there aiming toward the Twin Cities. I had to reverse engineer the directions to find my intersection with the bike path since they didn't mention its relation to Route 2. It became necessary to leave Route 2 and follow Rt. 197, a.k.a. Old U.S. 2, since the former skirted the city. Both 197 and the bike path entered the city by crossing a narrow strip of land between Lake Bemidji and Lake Irving so I assumed just by staying on 197 I'd be within sight of the path.
But I really wanted to be on the path and not looking at the path from the road. In fact, during the approach to the path, I suffered abuse from the passenger of one car that passed me, yelling that I could ride on the sidewalk. Bicycles are permitted on most roads and cyclists are usually prohibited from riding on sidewalks which are reserved for foot traffic. I don't know what the city ordinance in Bemidji says on the subject but until I knew otherwise I was sticking to the road. I belonged on the road and cars would just have to accept that fact. To retreat to the sidewalk just reinforces the average driver's opinion that the proper place for bicycles is somewhere other than on the road.
The ACA route followed County Road 7 up from the south to intersect the bike path. At some point C.R. 7 became 5th St. I assumed that if I found where 5th St. intersected Rt. 197 and followed it south I would find the bike path along it somewhere. I did and, once on it, my ACA directions led me to the Paul Bunyan State Trail bike path. It was obviously a former railroad bed but now paved, together with a new bridge carrying it across Rt. 2, which was more like an interstate highway in that location, and then through the woods heading south. It was getting late enough to consider stopping, there were no houses along the path and ample trees for stringing up a hammock and so, once over the aforementioned bridge, I was successful in finding a place along a sandy cut that screened me from the view of anyone on the path. It became my best hammock spot of the trip. It was quiet, sheltered from any wind and with a warm enough night to be comfortable but cool enough to limit the bugs.
I set my alcohol stove up on the pavement of the bike path. It's always best to have an incombustible surface for the stove which can cause some scorching problems on occasion. There were some rain drops that occasionally fell while I was eating supper and I had to retreat under the tarp for a few minutes when it intensified briefly and then came out to eat dessert and clean up before turning in. I had a good night's sleep and when it came time to get up it was raining steadily. As is usually the case, I give the rain a chance to let up before attempting to pack. It's possible to use the tarp and pack everything while crouched beneath it but unless I'm hemmed in by a strict schedule I'd rather wait it out for at least a reasonable length of time. In this case it didn't last more than another hour and so I was able to pack up dry.
My ACA map indicated a grocery store and restaurant in Laporte which was a 20 mile ride from my camping spot. I didn't think I'd get there for an official breakfast but I hoped there might still be something breakfast-like that I could order from the menu. It turned out the grocery store, Laporte Grocery and Meats, and the “restaurant” were one and the same but unfortunately the grill was closed on Sundays. I was able to get some coffee and a bakery item as well as a pint of milk and a bowl and spoon which I used to finish off the rest of Matt's muesli. It was very good. The television was tuned to a Minnesota Vikings/Carolina Panthers football game and I was able to cheer on the Vikings to a come from behind win. It was nice to be a Vikings fan for the day.
On my way out of the store I met a couple who were also biking the trail and had come all the way from SoCal to do so. She was an unemployed, by choice, French teacher who had decided she'd had enough of high school student shenanigans and was not missing the classroom. I had to admit that I did miss it, though not at all the requirements from the school administration that were part of the job. They were staying in a trailside B&B and the proprietor of the establishment was willing to ferry them to various locations on the network of bike trails, some 120 miles altogether, from which they would ride back to their lodgings. They seemed to be enjoying the arrangement.
From Laporte it was a 12 mile ride into Walker. After taking a picture of the terminus of the trail on the north side of town I stopped in at a Subway to get something else to eat and study my Minnesota road map. I wasn't sure how much further I could go but I was hoping to cut into the remaining distance to Duluth, 130 miles, as much as possible before the end of the day. I wanted a relatively short day on Tuesday when I would be riding into the city, finding the bike shop, getting packed, and calling a cab in time for the 5 p.m. bus.
My eventual stopping place turned out to be Remer, MN to which I arrived, after dark, in the driving wind and rain. I had been stopped by a couple in a pick-up truck a few miles before Remer who queried me on my plans for the night and wanted to offer me a cabin to get out of the rain. It seemed tempting but would have required them making room for my bike under the tonneau cover of their truck and there seemed to be quite a lot of things under there already, plus I was soaking wet and poor company on a shared truck seat. I thanked them and assured them I'd camped in similar situations and stayed very dry.
I didn't come to actually regret turning down the offer but my warm dry hammock was not my sleeping spot for the night which instead was the floor of the perpetually lighted gazebo in the center of the town. I searched around for a couple of trees in a town park or cemetery to no avail and returned to the gazebo, where I had earlier heated up and eaten my supper, and rolled out my sleeping bag on the floor screened from view from the road by a bench and trash can. I was able to pitch my tarp as a wind break, which was needed, since the rain was traveling horizontally. Fortunately there was a warehouse-like building to the west, up wind, that blocked most of it except the occasional eddying gust. The flag on a nearby pole would crack like a gun shot from time to time. Once I donned my warmup pants and cycling jacket I was comfortable. The tarp blocked the overhead light enough to be able to ignore it and fall asleep.
I woke up and packed early enough not to cause a town spectacle. I'd had a rather fitful night's sleep with a dream of losing track of my bicycle and gear by getting up too late and being swept away in the festivities surrounding a parade through town. Breakfast at the Woodsman's Cafe helped to settle my anxieties. I hadn't halved the distance to Duluth from Walker but I'd cut off about a third of it. The remaining 90 miles would be easy to do with a strong tailwind, which it seemed I would have, so I hoped I'd find something close to, but not right in, the city. As my mileage for the day closed in on a total of 70, Faye was able to give me directions to a potential place to camp in the form of the Saginaw campground in Saginaw, MN at the intersection of Rt. 2 and 194. I could have chosen to take either to ride into the city but Rt. 2 would take me closer to the bus station on Grand Ave. where I started riding in 2014 on the Great Lakes leg of my transcontinental journey. It was important to join the end of this year's ride to the start of that one.
She was also able to clue me in to the closest remaining convenience store before I reached the campground and I stopped and bought a noodle bowl and chips for supper. The noodles were good but the chips, made by the Boulder Canyon company, were rice and adzuki bean chips with chipotle cheese seasoning. They were surprisingly good and I hoped I might be able to track them down near home. The campground catered more to trailers and RVs than tents and no one answered my knock on the office door. I used the open front of their garage to heat up my noodles since the wind was gusting (a bad thing for an alcohol stove) and raining in spurts all the while hoping the owner would not arrive, discover me doing it and then object to my taking such liberties.
When someone did arrive it was the owner's mother-in-law. She was the one in charge of cleaning the bathrooms and she was more interested in doing that than questioning my location for heating up supper or checking me in. When she'd finished with the chores she did open up the office and let me register for the night. The process involved me riding to a couple of open campsites and examining the hammocking possibilities. I found one that would work and returned to say so. The campground only accepted cash. I paid for my site with only $4 to spare. She gave me the combination for unlocking the rest/shower room door. After stringing up the hammock I used the shower which was clean and well functioning and then, feeling quite content, walked across the road to a bar called the Saginaw Grand Lake Station.
I ordered a draft beer, a Bent Paddle Black, brewed in nearby Duluth which was good enough to have a second along with a bag of chips. Drinking the beer alone on my end of the bar allowed me to watch the first of the presidential debates between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump. There were two television screens above the bar and they were both tuned into the debate but to separate stations and not completely in synch. It created a jarring effect that redirected my attention from what was being said to more of a focus on the behavior of the patrons on the opposite end of the bar.
They appeared to be a group of locals, all friends, at least while at the bar, and all in agreement about which candidate they supported and it quickly became obvious it was not “Her.” What was most noticeable to me was that during the times Trump was speaking they were busily talking away among themselves paying little or no attention to what was being said. In stark contrast, as soon as Sec. Clinton began a response or opened on a topic, they were all ears. They would listen just long enough to hear something that reinforced their preconception of her positions and then erupt into a string of expletives and invective. Words like “solar power” met the requirement. Much laughter would follow and then perhaps they'd listen again, if she was still speaking, only to be followed by a similar outburst if the right combination of words was uttered.
Being a Bernie supporter myself I didn't feel personally offended by the behavior. It did make me aware of how easy it was to base one's opinions more on emotion than on substance. The steady anti-Hillary drumbeat leading up to the election was having its desired effect. Regardless of who became her opponent, the red state faithful were primed to reject her in favor of that person. I think we all succumb to similar behavior. If I'd been listening to the debate in the company of a group of like-minded progressives I'd probably be reacting in much the same way, ignoring Clinton's part in the debate and erupting when some trigger word issued from the mouth of Trump. If it had been Chris Christie or Ted Cruz instead, I expect my reaction wouldn't have changed. I suspect that if a moderate Republican candidate had been put forward it might have prompted more careful thought and less knee-jerk reaction. I wonder if these folks at the bar would have felt the same if Bernie, Joe, or some other candidate they were much less well-programmed to hate, was running instead of Hillary.
My rest during the night was far from perfectly peaceful due to the unfortunate location of the campground nestled as it was between a highway intersection and an active rail line. If the trains weren't chugging by whistling, then the trucks were braking for either a stop or a turn. At least the spot was legally paid for so it didn't come with the worry of the previous night's. Grand Lake Station didn't serve breakfast so I kept my eyes open for a likely spot as I rode toward Duluth on Rt. 2. I stopped at the Calumet gas station expecting to find a pre-made breakfast sandwich that I could warm up in a microwave but saw nothing like a convenience store attached to the station and so turned to leave when I noticed the building extended further back and a number of cars were parked alongside it. That part looked like a diner and then I noticed a sign out on the highway to that effect. I wouldn't have noticed it otherwise. Carlson's turned out to be a nice discovery with a hash and egg special for only $6 and they were willing to take plastic which was good since my cash reserves were so low.
The final leg of the ride into downtown Duluth involved a steep, and rather long, descent down to the lakeside. Duluth turned out to be built along a shelf nestled between the lake and an escarpment to the west. Any traveling north or south was fairly level but anyone heading west had an uphill climb from the center of town. I found the bus station and went in to inquire about whether my pre-purchased ticket was valid from that location or Kirby Plaza on the U of MN campus. The answer was that either location was acceptable and since Kirby Plaza would be a shorter taxi ride from the bike shop I anticipated I'd be embarking from there.
The ride uptown from the bus station followed city streets and a lakeside bike path which I was guided to courtesy of Google bike directions. I lost track of the route near the center of the business district and ended up back on the city streets. The bike shop was on East 1st St. and I found the street and started riding north only to discover I was going the wrong way on a one-way street. I retreated to the sidewalk and then spotted a hardware store on the sloping street that led back down toward the lake.
I went in and purchased a short length of vinyl tubing, just enough to go around the big ring on my bicycle crankset. I had discovered that with the wheels off of the frame, which is the way it is stored in the fabric bag, but riding upright inside the cardboard bicycle box on the train, the chainring teeth had worked their way through the bag and box while the bike was stored in the baggage car on the ride out. I needed a means to protect the teeth and wrapping a slit section of hose around the outside of the big ring seemed like a good way to do that.
To avoid traveling any further against traffic on the one-way I went a couple of blocks north on the parallel street that the hardware store was on and then turned left to get back up to E. 1st. I was past the number for the bike shop so I could ride with traffic as I looked for it. It just so happened that it was directly behind the hardware store I'd been to. If I hadn't been distracted by the Ace Hardware sign I probably would have seen the shop.
I still had plenty of time before the bus was scheduled to leave and when I presented myself as the owner of the box they'd been storing for more than a week they were only too happy to give it to me. I introduced myself to Andre and told him his cousin Matt said “Hi.” I gathered that the family relationship was a bit strained. It seemed that Matt had used it to get frequent advice and help with his bicycle problems which were numerous and repetitive despite admonitions to treat his bike with more care. Andre was also not surprised that Matt was willing to keep riding through the night.
The front of the shop had a wide overhanging eave which was where I chose to do the packing up. It kept me out of the way and I was able to keep working despite a steady rain that developed. Some wire ties helped hold the hose in place and I was satisfied it would work as designed. Everything went back into my hockey bag except the clothes I was planning on wearing on the train. I was allowed use of the bathroom to change and when all was ready, got the number of a cab company and made a call to get picked up out front of the shop. I gave the guys a ten spot to add to their party kitty and have since felt cheap about the amount. I probably should have given them double that for being so willing to help with my plan.
The cab dropped me off in front of the Kirby Center which was the main hub of campus activity with plenty of food concessions inside and bus waiting shelters out front. Despite the cabby's insistence that the Jefferson Lines bus to St. Paul stopped in front of the center I made inquiries about it and was directed to a different spot further back. Only transit buses seemed to be stopping in front of the Center.
I bought a sandwich for a late lunch/early supper and had finished it well before the bus arrived. My bike and hockey bag fit easily inside the baggage compartment and I took a seat in a filled to capacity bus driven by a lady driver, which is a rarity in my experience.
The trip to St. Paul was uneventful and the bus used the same station as the train so I was able to check my bicycle through to Albany before leaving the building. I kept the hockey bag and planned to check that in the morning. I was informed that the train was running about six hours behind schedule due to the derailment of a freight train that used the same track. There would be a bus that would take all passengers to Chicago so that we would not miss our connections because of the late running train from Seattle. My bicycle might not make it onto the connecting train so there was the possibility I would need to return to Albany to reclaim it. It would be tight. The time difference between the normal arrival of the western train and the departure of the eastern one was about six hours, the same as the length of the delay. The person checking my bicycle through to Albany told me to ask in Chicago about the chances my bike would make it onto the same train as me. I could probably have kept the bike with me and checked it onto the bus instead but it was heavy and not needed for anything. I decided to take my chances.
I called Scott Patrick, a Warmshowers host, who together with his wife Amber were willing to give me a bed for the night despite the fact that I was not actually arriving at their house by bicycle. They lived close to the station and I was willing to take a cab but Scott insisted that I let him pick me up and so I did. They were very welcoming, fed me tacos for supper along with some Yama Hama sweet potato beer and more Bent Paddle Black which prompted me to talk about my bar experience the previous night, as well as about the microbrews available near my home and my own experiments with fermenting cider. They were chagrined to hear about the Trump supporters in Saginaw which gave me the strong indication that Minnesotans are not all Republicans. The folks in the Twin Cities seemed to favor a Democratic viewpoint. The rural Minnesotans are more conservative. I tried not to be too dismissive of the season the Twins were having but Scott said he had given up rooting for them to win and was hoping they could set a record for losses at that point. If they could, it would make the season distinctive if nothing else.
We had a very good conversation and they felt amply rewarded hearing the account of my journey. I remain in awe of the hospitality that has been shown me by people I've met while bicycling. The morning included a breakfast sandwich and then a lift back to the train station to catch the bus. I would later send Scott a six pack of one of our local beers, a Berkshire Brewing Co. Lost Sailor IPA, as well as a bottle of my cider. I discovered the postal service does not allow the shipping of anything containing alcohol but one can use UPS provided one doesn't specifically list the contents as being an alcoholic beverage. On the Internet one person suggested using a descriptor like “yeast samples.” Since the local UPS never actually asked me to list the contents, I assumed they were operating under the “don't ask, don't tell” policy.
The bus arrived in Chicago with plenty of time to spare so after checking my bag through to Albany I went in search of something to eat which I found at a Corner Bakery Cafe on the corner of the same building that housed the train station. They are part of a chain and I don't know if all their sites are corner locations but, at least, this one was.
I boarded the Lake Shore Limited in time for its 9:30 p.m. departure and spent the night sleeping in my seat which was next to an unoccupied one, allowing me to stretch out quite comfortably. The time gap between trains had been whittled down to 45 min. on the positive side and, when I asked, I was told by the conductor that my bike was aboard the train.
I collected it and my hockey bag at the baggage claim window in Albany and waited patiently out front for Faye to arrive. We went to the same Dunkin Donuts I'd spent time in on the day I left and then we followed the “road less traveled” back home to Ashfield.