North Dakoter? I hardly know her
Glendive, MT to Fargo, ND
5 days
+/- 465 miles
There's only one Mountain in North Dakota.
This state has treated me so well. The past five days have been a breeze (that's an understatement: for the first few days after crossing over from Montana I had 35 mph tailwinds shoving me due east across a dead man's EKG [I killed it]; thereafter, as the winds wore themselves out, I settled into a midwest tranquility).
The economics of state boundaries announce themselves promptly at the border: ND's got oil and is in boon times. We're just starting to tap the bakken shale: unemployment couldn't be lower and we're on track to beat texas for output. Rent per square foot runs higher than in Portland and all sorts of unsavory folk have been moving here and profiteering. More impressively, the state's clearly investing in infrastructure by repaving and reinforcing the highways for the increased traffic. Less impressively, the roads are fucking terrifying in the mean time. But only for short little runs (I'm looking at you, 94).
18-wheelers -- less than amenable to travelers on two wheels who have no need for their slurry -- own the roads and are the catalysts for all the construction as they bring the oil to a gas station near you (with certainly a couple steps between). Two-lane highways have been narrowed down to one during road upgrades; one-lane highways (once the scenic bastion for touring cyclists) aren't any better. Commodious shoulders are no longer en vogue. I wanted to get past it all, and quickly. Flying through the region (at 15-20 mph) I took a diversion to Teddy Roosevelt's national park for a swim in the little Missouri river amid the bison and then got on my way.
The wind and the roadwork died down after Bismarck; strangers became a whole hell of a lot friendlier, almost disarmingly so. First stop after the capital was the Honey Hub in Gackle. North Dakota's arguably got a pleasant season of about 110 days. Jason (son of one of the "Honey Stinger" founding farmers) brings his bees up from Northern California to feast on clover, wild flowers and alfalfa during that little window. He and his wife have also created a haven for cyclists: a basement apartment with wifi, a hot plate, beds, a shower, washer/dryer -- everything you'd need to refresh in the midst of a few days on the open road. Their magnanimity is inspiring. From there I continued east, through green open fields freckled with small ponds, toward Enderlin.
There's only one Mountain in North Dakota. He introduced himself as Dean but everyone in Enderlin calls him Mountain. And Hank (his massive white bulldog) is the snow cap. The two of them set the skyline. As I look back on North Dakota (tonight in Fargo is my last night here), his boundless hospitality synecdochizes the state: when he found out I'd be camping at the park near his house, he brought a pile of firewood and a handful of other treats to make me feel right at home.
On the idyllic ride to Fargo, I crossed the path of yet another sweet, young touring cyclist. Kim's been traveling the world for nearly a year now on a sabbatical that's culminating with a bike ride from New York to Vancouver, BC. We hung out on the side of the road, talking about the logistical intricacies of packing your life onto a bike and the ineluctable modalities of crossing the country off route. I got to downtown mid-afternoon, found a German beer hall, and wolfed down some of the best wurst (pig, rabbit, and rattlesnake) of my life. Tomorrow to Minnesota.
High noon in Litchville
Les. What a great guy! One of my many new friends in ND
