In 700 Miles, Turn Right

Big Sandy, MT to Malta, MT

2 days

125 miles

I changed my socks today. It was more for the ceremony than out of necessity. I'd been wearing that pair for two weeks now; at the end of most days I wash my clothes under a campground sprocket or in a motel sink, leave them out to dry, then start the morning with my freshly cleaned uniform. A couple nights I've been too tired for any of that and have treated the new day as just a continuation of the last. But today marked the beginning of the second big leg of the trip: the 700 miles or so heading due east through the flat lands of eastern Montana and then North Dakota.

I entered this stage of the ride under the guidance of another touring cyclist. Trevor -- polyglot, local historian, and all around spectacular guy -- briefly crossed my path about a week ago, just this side of the Rockies, and invited me to stay with his family when I finally made it through to Havre (pronounced like, you can "have her"). I arrived yesterday around 4 pm; by 4:30 we were at the local brew pub with a couple beers and a mountain of BBQ pulled pork before us. A procession of train cars, destroyed in yesterday's storm and towed by a handful of trucks, passed us by. From there, we drove off to Bear's Paw Mountain (so named because to ole Merriwether Lewis approaching from the east, the outcropping looked like a sleeping bear, with one ridgeline resembling the paw our bear used for his pillow) and made it to the great buffalo jump just in time for the rising moon and setting sun over the local badlands (glacier-carved limestone in these parts). I took off this morning.

The highlands aren't totally flat, but flat enough that I can see small hills (maybe 200-foot climbs) from about 10 miles away. These tiny punctuations in topography tease my hope for the day's destination or just some escape from the monotony. Beyond the poor dead birds that show up every mile or so, I have only the wild grasses to commune with and today they weren't telling me what I wanted to hear: their bearded spikes languidly bent west, reminding me this 90-mile ride was straight into the wind. Like the distance that lies before me, the wind of these plains is far too big for my comprehension. And so I feebly let my frustration be known to the grasses, as though if they just changed the way they waved the wind would have to follow suit: "The revolution starts with you, grasses!" But to no avail. I arrived at the Malta campsite around 7:30, made my dinner of lentils and ramen, then passed out pretty quickly.

I'm not letting my hand off that pork

Check out the solar panel atop my bags