The Home Stretch

Southbound U.S. 97 in Eastern Oregon

June 26, 2013 
Overcast sky and the threat of rain greeted me this morning at Biggs Junction, but not in a bad way. What would normally cause a dismal outlook was far outweighed by my excitement of knowing a five-hour ride was the only thing between me and being reunited with Sherry and the "kids" (Maggie, Nigel and Hope). As they say, "absence makes the heart grow fonder" and I've been absent one week shy of three months. 

Eager to get started, I ignored breakfast ... wolfing down a couple of granola bars and coffee instead ... and was soon rolling south on U.S. 97 across the treeless plateau of Eastern Oregon, which can be confusing to foreigners who imagine Oregon as one big, river-laced forest.  While that is true of most areas west of the Cascades, Eastern Oregon is a world apart, culturally and politically as well. Although larger geographically, the sparse population of conservative thinking cowboys who dominate the eastern side of the state are no match at the polls for the liberal progressives who fill the large cities on the west side, hence Oregon has been on the blue side of politics for many years.

Along with the drip and drizzle it was a day of reflection for me, thinking back those many miles ago since I shivered across Oregon's mountains that cold April morning and basked that evening in the warmth of California's San Joaquin Valley. I bounced over rough roads to the state's exit at Needles and enjoyed the cactus strewn scenery of Arizona before my windy crossing of New Mexico and and West Texas, remarkably different from the balmy Texas Coast. My tropical experience continued across the Gulf Coast and down through Florida to its far reaches at Key West, the apex of my journey.

I spent three weeks in Florida, making my first, only, and possibly last visit to the state count. It was the first of six states I'd never been to before. The next was Indiana where I arrived the first week of June after zigging and zagging over and through the mountains and hills of Georgia, Tennessee and Kentucky. It was Indiana where my good luck with the weather began to change, highlighted by a tornado threat that had we patrons of the Holiday Express at Portland, Indiana hunkered down in the hallways.

Ohio and Michigan were my next "never-been-to-before" states to cross. Although I expected Ohio to be as I found it --- rolling farmland --- I was pleasantly surprised to find Michigan was also predominantly rural. I'd expected it to be covered with crowded cities. The same was true of those areas of Wisconsin and Minnesota I rode through. They were the next states I could add to my "been-there-seen-that" list. North Dakota, the next state to add to my list, was exactly what I expected ..... flat, empty and windy. Montana, Idaho and Washington were old friends, but I'd never seen them in such a bad mood. Nasty weather every day only hastened my desire to hurry home and put an end to the meteorological torture. And so here I am, having come full circle, literally ---- a 10,292-mile circle. 

My final miles were mixed with rain but nothing serious. What normally would be considered a less than exuberant ride was instead laced with giddy anticipation as each mile brought me closer to home. Even the GPS and Harley were in that "headed for the barn mode" and it was hard to harness their momentum. And then we were there, enjoying the hugs, kisses, and tail-wagging-face-licks from Sherry and the kids.

It's good to be back home again.



(Video: Part One ... for best view select 480p resolution on video task bar) (Video: Part Two ... for best view select 480p resolution on video task bar)

Biggs Junction, OR To Oakridge, OR (233 Miles)

End Of The Road (10,292 Miles)

Big Ride To Biggs

June 25, 2013
While the morning sun wrestled dark clouds I walked next door to the Red Light Garage for the "Miner's Special," a hearty breakfast of eggs, sausage and diced potatoes, which would sustain me on the long ride ahead. I hoped to make it half way home if the weather channel's predicted rain didn't get too intense. So far, so good, but best not to linger long in Wallace. I was soon rolling west, closing the 80-mile gap to Spokane.

Except for a few rough stretches of Interstate 90 playing havoc with smooth video, the morning ride was enjoyable. I was blessed with no rain, no wind, warm sun at my back and beautiful scenery as I swept through sweeping curves around light traffic, mile after mile fading in my rear view mirrors. Even Spokane was a breeze to negotiate, its multi-lane freeways free of the heavy traffic I expected. I was thankful the rain-threatening clouds that lay ahead held off until I was a good ways south of the big city. I was even allowed time to pull off and batten down the hatches .... i.e. cinch down my rain gear and gauntlet gloves.

Starting off with a sprinkle here and there, before long I was treading water at 60 miles per hour with the rest of the world settling for 70 on the 75-mph freeway. As the saying goes, "If you can't run with the big dogs, stay on the porch." Maybe if I could see I could find that porch. Maybe if I could breathe. It was getting hard to do either, especially in the wake of big trucks barreling by. In times like these I seek refuge under an overpass but they're scarce in the emptiness of Eastern Washington. I glanced at the GPS who was having her own issues with survival and could only give a gurgling display upon my request for the nearest town. She sputtered the name, "Sprague," as being near an exit not far ahead. By then we were crawling along the shoulder to avoid becoming a Peterbilt's hood ornament.

The Harley clung to a patch of dry asphalt under the freeway as I administered CPR to the GPS. Not really, but I'm sure her overall health was jeopardized by the deluge. I dried her off and checked her vitals. She rallied and not only gave directions to Sprague (it wasn't exactly at the exit), but suggested an isolated backroad to Ritzville. Couldn't vouch for the condition of the road but said it's paved and most likely void of traffic. As for flash-flood vulnerability, she wasn't sure.

Under the awning of an abandoned gas station in Sprague, waiting for the rain to quit, I was giving serious consideration to checking into the motel about a block away. Was it my imagination, or did I just hear the word "wimp" emanate from the GPS?

The rain subsided to drip and drizzle and then quit altogether, which improved my outlook immensely but not enough to return to the freeway. Instead, I rode the backroad 25 miles to Ritzville where I joined the fast lane once again for the remaining miles to Kennewick. By then, the "Miner's Special" was no longer special. Time to stop and grab a couple of granola bars from my pack and a swig or two from my water bottle. I chose the handy parking lot of Kennewick's Harley shop, probably because after years of owning Harley's I am conditioned to visit at least one of their shops in each state and empty the contents of my wallet. This time though I didn't even have to go inside. Apart from that minor tire issue in Cookeville, Tennessee the Harley's been running like a fine watch.

A young man on a blue '94 Heritage rolled in beside me. We traded road stories before he went inside. He was completing a week-long ride to Boise, Carson City and San Francisco and had also had his share of rough roads and nasty weather. Like me, he was getting anxious to be home. Learning each of us came from the direction the other was headed, we inquired from each other the weather conditions. The boy was glad to hear my storm was moving north and should be well past Spokane and even past his home in "Trail", British Columbia by the time he got there. His news for me wasn't as good, saying heavy rain wasn't far behind him, which meant not far in front of me.

Once again I eye-balled a nearby motel, a comfortable looking LaQuinta Inn. Maybe 230 miles was enough for today?

"For crying out loud, it's only 3 p.m," chided the GPS. 

Nevertheless, I was soon at the front desk of the LaQuinta, attempting to sign up. I was shocked to learn they were sold out. I couldn't understand why but had to accept it. Perhaps it was a case of discrimination against old grizzled bikers?

I entered into the GPS our new destination -- Biggs Junction, a freeway truck stop on the Oregon side of the Columbia River, 110 miles from Kennewick. The GPS estimated our arrival would be 5 p.m. We hoped there'd be available lodging because the "pickings" only get slimmer after that. I opted for Washington Route 14 for the westbound approach rather than Interstate 84 in Oregon. It was light traffic and an enjoyable ride in spite of hovering clouds in various shades of black. 

Right on schedule, I rolled into Biggs Junction and was soon standing at the desk of Dinty's Motor Inn, signing up for my last night on the road. I was eye to eye with a lap-anchored poodle who watched in expectation as I reached for my wallet. Must've thought I was going to give him a treat. I suppose he was satisfied his boss got the treat, $55 off my threadbare credit card. It was a treat for me, too, to get a clean, spacious and comfortable room at such a reasonable price.

P.S. .... It never did rain.


Wallace To Biggs (Part One ... Best viewed at 640 resolution)  
Wallace To Biggs (Part Two ... Best viewed at 640 resolution )

Sam Hill Memorial Bridge As Viewed From The Oregon Side Of The Columbia River

Window View of Washington From Dinty's Motor Inn at Biggs Junction, Oregon

Twilight On The Columbia River

Wallace, ID to Biggs Jct, OR (326 Miles)

Doing Time In Wallace

June 23, 2013
As is well known, I'm a bit behind in keeping this blog current. Today's real date is April 2, 2014, exactly one year since I started this ride. The Dec 12th date shown above is automatic/unchangeable whenever a blog entry is started. On that December date I purposely created unpublished posts for the rest of the trip so as to keep the finished product at least in the correct year, 2013, even though the many months listed in the contents are not accurate. The actual trip started April 2nd and ended June 26th.

Falling behind started in Florida because I was immersed in touristic glee and was quickly overwhelmed, trying to keep my writing/videos up to date. However, on the actual day of June 23, 2013, I made a blog post explaining all that --- Click Here To Read

Now for the rest of the day of June 23rd: 
Blue sky had erased the clouds of yesterday and promised a good ride this morning as I set out for Spokane, Washington, which seemed an appropriate destination for today. Though quite chilly when I started I was adequately layered with suitable clothing and found the ride comfortable and exhilarating. No rain, no wind, the sun at my back and beautiful scenery as barren flatlands gave way to forested hills and mountains. It doesn't get any better than that. And though I encountered a fair amount of teeth-rattling highway, mostly in the mountains, the rough parts didn't last long and were separated by longer stretches of smooth road suitable for the 75 mph speed limit. Clouds gradually filled the sky as the day wore on, increasing the likelihood of late-afternoon thunderstorms. I hoped I was to my destination before they became reality. 

I'd just crossed the Idaho border, descending Interstate 90's Lookout Pass, when I decided to stop in a turnout to read some area history off large signs. It told of silver mining and local associated towns of which "Wallace" was one. I recalled that name being mentioned by a friend who'd been there and said it was well worth a visit. I imagined a stay in Wallace would be more interesting than staying in the big city of Spokane, 80 more miles down the Interstate.  Only 16 more miles to Wallace. The decision was made. The GPS led me to the door step of the Stardust Motel, an old but clean place reasonable priced on the south side of town.

The desk lady (and apparent owner) was born and raised in Wallace. She apologized for most of the shops being closed, it being Sunday and all, but agreed with my preference to just walk the streets and look at the numerous old buildings, maybe take a few pictures. I did:  PICTURES  Read about Wallace  HERE

Looking for dinner after my picture-taking walk around town, I found the desk lady's recommended City Limits Pub and Grill on the north edge of town. Aptly named, it's a short walk outside the city limits alongside 9-Mile Creek. I suspected correctly the waitress-directing man who carried his own plate from the kitchen, sat at nearby patio table and asked me how my food was, was the owner.

A friendly guy, he commented that it was very "muggy" out. I was able to trump his idea of muggy with my report on the heat in Florida from where I'd recently returned. He agreed I was probably right with my "you-ain't-seen-nothin'" account. From the ensuing conversation I learned, like the desk lady whom he knows, he was born and raised in Wallace. But he spent 35 years in Alaska before returning to try his hand at the pub business with a friend. They also own the adjacent RV Park, which sparked my interest. Maybe Sherry and I will come back with the trailer someday, browse the shops and further explore the history of Wallace. The man said the spots are full-hookup at $25 per night. Best to make reservations he said, especially in July when there are several festivals in town.

My 4-hour excursion of Wallace was over by 8 p.m. Today's predicted rain never happened.

 
June 24, 2013
When blindsided by rain on the open road you have no choice but to tough it out and carry on. But when you awake to drip-drizzling rain and there's an option to sign up for another day .... well, it's an easy choice. That was me and that's the choice I made. I could use the down time to work on my blog and videos.  And I really needed to find a laundermat.

The desk lady advised there's a laundermat 2 blocks away and, regarding my breakfast inquiry, said the Red Light Garage next door serves a huge Huckleberry pancake to die for.

"Yeah, and if you don't finish it she'll eat the leftovers," mumbled a coffee-sipping old-guy seated nearby, peering over his newspaper. (I suddenly realized morning newspaper readers are becoming as rare as telephone booths. If it was a young-guy he wouldn't have held a newspaper but, instead, would have been digitally involved with a handheld device.)

"Oh stop it," the lady scolded, then chuckled and said, "But I will freeze them and save them for later."

With a recommendation like that how could I not order the Huckleberry pancake. I don't know if it was to die for but it was pretty good and pretty filling. Interesting place, the Red Light Garage. I learned from the proprietor, a rotund gent with a white goatee (reminded me of folk-singer Burl Ives), the place in fact was a two-bay automotive garage when he bought it 21 years ago and turned it into a cafe.

"This here's the lift," he said, tapping the huge support of the elevated table he sat next to on a bar-stool. "Still works." Pointing to the ceiling, which was covered in old license plates, he said it started when he used just one to patch a leak. The idea caught on. People kept giving him license plates until he filled the ceiling.

Between heavy rain showers I made it to the laundermat and back. I spent the afternoon doing computer work and monitoring the weather channel on TV. I ventured out about 5 p.m. for dinner at the "Smoke House" restaurant, which occupies only a small section on the ground floor of a huge brick building built in 1890, if the displayed date is correct.  I ordered the half-rack of BBQ ribs. The "4" ribs came with a thimble full of baked beans and a dollop of potato salad. It tasted good but certainly wasn't worth the $18 price tag and the service was marginal. Should have gone back to the City Limits Pub. 

More rain on tomorrow's weather menu. But I can't stay here forever. I've got to make a run for it.

Historic Wallace, Idaho

Had Dinner At The City Limits Pub

Patio Dining and RV Park on Other Side

The Red Light Garage Is A Cafe

Had Breakfast Here

Had Dinner At The Smoke House Restaurant

Lodged Here In Wallace, Idaho (June 23 and 24)

Butte To Wallace (Video Part One)

Butte To Wallace (Video Part Two)

Butte, Montana To Wallace, Idaho (235 Miles)

Wild Montana Skies

 

Westbound I-90 From Bozeman, MT

June 22, 2013
The all-night-rain quit before daylight. Nevertheless, it was still a world of drip and drizzle outside my door at Motel 6 in Billings, Montana, prompting me to delay departure until near checkout time. Meanwhile, I took the lengthy office-walk for this establishment's token cup of coffee and, as the parking lot dried, continued my futile attempt to "catch up" the blog.

In just a couple of hours blue sky and sunshine resurrected my traveling spirit, although I knew from the weather forecast it wouldn't last the 350 miles to Missoula, my planned destination for today. I knew I'd have to stop somewhere and don rain-gear, so figured I'd get the job at least half done by putting on rain-pants before leaving. Turned out to be a good idea in that they mitigate the wind chill at this 3,000 to 4,000 foot elevation. Higher elevations lay ahead and my cozy leather chaps have been sidelined due to the left-leg zipper continually separating in the wind. I will probably wear the rain-pants all the way home.

Today's ride started out great. I was blessed with nature's morning fragrance wafting off the landscape, the sun at my back, and tolerable temperatures for 146 miles. Then it got colder and started to "sprinkle" as clouds wrestled the sun for control of the sky. I stopped to put on my rain jacket over my leather jacket and replace my gloves with heavier, waterproof ones. At Livingston, I stopped again for fuel and endured the chuckling glance from a barefooted woman fueling her hippie-decorated Subaru bearing Washington plates. "Cold, eh?" Apparently, she considered it a balmy day. Maybe so in her caged world. Not so on my element-exposed ride.

I ascended the near 6,000-foot Bozeman Pass, enjoying its beauty despite the dropping temperature and ever-present threat of rain, which looked downright dangerous from where, later, I was negotiating freeway construction barrels through the city of Bozeman. The distant sky was absolutely black, at least the massive cloud at dead-center. At times, the highway curved away from it only, as if magnetized, to realign with the darkest center on the horizon. Usually, I'd seek refuge at a time like this but this weather is predicted to last into the foreseeable future as far west as home, and beyond. There's no escaping it.

Thankfully, the highway did in fact skirt the cloud when I got to it. I may have escaped thunder and lightening but not the peripheral deluge that plagued me all the way to Whitehall where I enjoyed a brief drying out, only to be blindsided once again by more rain.

The water didn't bead up and roll off my windshield like yesterday. I carry special windshield treatment wipes to roll-away rain but forgot to use one after washing the bugs off the windshield a couple of fuel stops back. Consequently, visibility was greatly compromised. I found looking over the top of the windshield offered slightly better visibility as the rain ricocheted off my face and the yellow-lens, wrap-around shooting glasses I use on dark days. That worked but exposed my face to a newly developed setback .....  SLEET! What's next? Snow? The intermittent sleet pinged off my face for only a few painful miles before it was back to mere face-splattering rain. I'm reminded of the old joke about the guy being asked why he was hitting himself in the head with a hammer. "Because it feels so good when I quit."  ..... And quit was exactly my plan if I ever made it to Butte, 120 miles short of Missoula.

I was nearly hypothermic when I dripped across the lobby and up to the desk of the Quality Inn at Butte where I envisioned soon being in a room and wrapping my cold hands around hot cup of coffee. The desk clerk was more than willing to sign me up but said my room wouldn't be ready until 4 p.m.  For the first time on the entire trip I was denied early afternoon check-in, despite it being 2 p.m., the exact time when every motel I've ever known allows check-in. Besides, it's a big place and Butte doesn't strike me as a tourist mecca. Well, it is a Saturday. Maybe it was a wild and crowded Friday night and everyone slept in? I might have tolerated 2:30 but wasn't about to languish about the lobby for two hours. 

I was surprised my declaration of departure (to find a motel where I could check-in now) prompted the desk clerk to make a call to double-check availability. In less then 30 seconds she said there just happened to be an available room on the 2nd floor. Umm? That's one speedy maid, I thought, but said "that's great" as I unholstered my credit card and signed up for one night, hoping the Montana Skies will be tamer in the morning.


Today's Ride Part One
Today's Ride Part Two

Billings To Butte, MT 228 Miles

Plain Rainy Plains

June 21, 2013
Rain is predicted as far west as Tokyo. Yet, the weather channel has been "crying wolf" for more than two days and there's blue sky in the parking lot here at the North Country Inn in Mandan. Those thoughts are why I didn't suit up with rain gear before striking out on today's ride -- destination Glasgow, Montana. Ten miles later I was looking for an I-94 off-ramp and safe spot to correct that mistake. The increasingly dark sky and exploding rain drops with every click of the odometer were clues that it was time to stop and batten down the hatches, even though there are no hatches to batten on an open-faced helmet.

The accompanying videos show little rain and perhaps will prompt the reader to think .... "What's he sniveling about? That's nothing." One has to keep in mind the video is a mere glimpse of a few miles of rain. In reality there was at least 60 miles of rain, an approximate hour of trying to see without windshield wipers, not to mention struggled to breath with water running up my nose. I was being "water-boarded" right there in the saddle. That's "torture" according to some folks. To put up with it for another 300 miles was unthinkable.

I intended to put an end to the torture when I got to the next town, if there ever was one. I didn't care if I'd only been on the road a couple of hours, I was going to check into the next motel and wait out the storm, like I did in Alabama where parking lots can turn to lakes in five minutes. I watched it happen more than once ....  from a motel window. And forget my fanciful notion to resume two-lane travel via the Glasgow route across Montana. My new route is the most direct route home, which means my new destination is Billings.

Meanwhile, I intended to seek refuge in Dickinson but when I got there I could see bright blotches in clouds ahead. If I just pressed on, toward the light, maybe there'd be an end to the rain. If not, I'd be far west of town, swimming to the next. I decided to go for it and glad I did. I was soon looking at dry sunshine and back to the mile-melting speed of 75 toward Billings. That speed, plus occasional strong wind, wasn't helping my gas mileage and, though not desperate, I figured I'd pull off at Medora and refuel. Had to drop south of the freeway a couple of miles to find it.

Medora appears to be an Old-West-Themed-Tourist-Town. I'd call it a one horse town but I saw two. If not for my rain-drenched mood I might have lingered and enjoyed the ambiance but I wanted to stay ahead of the storm. It was following me. There was only one gas pump in town and several motorists were waiting in line to use it. I rode on, stopping for fuel near the Montana line. The storm was getting closer. I hurried on.

In Montana the terrain started to change. The hills were getting bigger and some even began to sprout trees. It's called scenery. Less scenic was the dark cloud on the horizon, literally --- a big one off to the left.  Sometimes the highway angled toward it, then away from it. This game of "cloud dodge" continued all the way to Billings where, although the sun was shining bright and there was dry road ahead, I was ready to call it quits. 410 miles is enough.

P.S.  .... It rained all night.

Video: Part One

Video: Part Two

Dark Sky Ahead

Rain

Entering Billings, Montana

Mandan, ND to Billings, MT 410 Miles

Fortified In Mandan

June 20, 2013
I took advantage of my two-day booking at the North Country Inn in Mandan and slept in. Had breakfast and spent too much time working on my blog, videos and pictures before finally getting back to Fort Lincoln where I paid another $5 entry fee plus a dollar extra for a guided tour of the Custer House. The next tour didn't start for a good while so I spent that time at the museum educating myself on the fort's history.

To ensure the safety of workers building the Northern Pacific Railroad to Montana, the U.S. Army, in June 1872, established an infantry post (Fort McKeen) on a hill overlooking the Missouri River. In November that year it was renamed Fort Abraham Lincoln and expanded to include a cavalry post below, which was in full operation in 1873 and under the command of LT Col George Armstrong Custer who, with his wife, Elizabeth (known as Libby), moved into their new home at the fort. It burnt down the following year. A second home, with enhancements insisted on by the flamboyant Custer, was built soon afterward.

Custer and his 7th Cavalry departed the fort May 17, 1876 on a campaign against the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It didn't go well. They never returned.

PICTURES  (2009 visit to the Little Bighorn Battlefield)

The railroad to Montana was completed in 1883 and by 1891 Fort Lincoln had been abandoned by the army. The resources had been moved closer to where needed. It is said local townspeople were responsible for dismantling the buildings, including the Custer house, using the lumber for their own building purposes. Fort Abraham Lincoln was no more.

The land became a state park in 1907 but it wasn't until 1934 that refurbishing efforts began with the building of a visitor center by the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) and the locations of original buildings being marked with brick cornerstones. They built roads and shelters but, apart from Blockhouses at the infantry post, it would be 1989 before the first building was reconstructed. The Custer House was built on the same spot as the original, using the same blueprints. Other buildings were reconstructed in the 1990's, which include Enlisted Mens Barracks, Commissary and Store House.

Only three other people besides me showed up for the next tour of Custer House. Our guide was a nervous young man who struggled to remember his lines as he led us through the home. It is furnished with period pieces but only a few of which actually belonged to Custer and his wife. Though I had a couple of questions, they were post-1875 and we'd been instructed none could be asked except questions with answers known in 1875 or before. Questions with modern day answers could be asked when we were back outside the house. I could see where that "game" might be relevant when kids are present but there were only 4 of us and we're all adults with fading memories. Consequently, I forgot to ask the questions when we got outside and even now can't remember what they were. I guess it was an okay tour for the one-dollar fee.

I meandered over to the Commissary, which is a code name for souvenir shop and snack bar. I browsed the Chinese-made merchandise, none of which made me want to reach for my wallet. A period-costumed-soldier with sergeant stripes approached and asked me if I was waiting for a tour of the Custer House. He was an older fellow with a confident stance who held his tin cup of coffee like those "lifers" I knew in the Navy -- old salts they're called. I suspect I missed out by not having him as a guide instead of the stuttering rookie.

"Just had one," I told him, then asked if there was anything to see over at the soldier barracks. 

"Heading over there right now, to close up. I'll show you around. Walk with me." He gave me the choice of using the right-angled boardwalk or following him in an exercise of logic by taking the shortcut across the parade grounds. By the time we got to the barracks I'd learned more from him than during the entire previous tour. Sgt Al Johnson has been a tour guide at the park for 19 years. In real life he teaches sociology at the local high school.

After a quick and informative tour of the barracks and adjacent "mess hall", I finally mentioned that I met a man the previous evening who said to say "hi" to "Uncle Al."  I had to add that I knew an Al Johnson back home who was also a sergeant ... at the local police department.

The sergeant laughed at the coincidence and in recognition of the man from the previous evening and said, "he's an Arikara" and direct descendant of one of Custer's scouts but couldn't remember which one.

As we walked back across the parade grounds Sgt Johnson encouraged me to visit the infantry post on top of the hill, then stopped us in our tracks to salute the lowering of the flag by another soldier. I took some pictures of them folding the flag then rode to the infantry post.

Three of the four blockhouses (fortified buildings from which to ward off Indian attacks) marking the corners of the post had been reconstructed. I climbed to the top of one for a birds-eye view of the area then went for a picture-taking, sign-reading walk on the all the pathways. By then the sky had developed a threatening look causing me to think if I didn't want to swim back to Mandan I'd better head back "now". ............... (it never did rain).

Click for PICTURES

Sgt Al Johnson

Below is a slideshow video covering my two-day visit to Fort Abraham Lincoln

Fort Abraham Lincoln Location

On To North Dakota

June 19, 2013
As promised by the weatherman I woke to bright blue skies and mild temperatures. Perfect day for a ride. Although, that promise included stormy weather later in the day as far west as Idaho. No escape but early arrival at my destination of Mandan, North Dakota before late afternoon. Tomorrow's plan is to explore nearby Fort Abraham Lincoln, which is from where G.A. Custer and his 7th Cavalry left on their fateful ride to the Little Bighorn River in Montana.

I downed some coffee and the Days Inn version of breakfast, then headed northwest on Interstate 94. Having played "cat-and-mouse" with stormy weather since Indiana, I've had to trade my backroad quest for a weather-dodging strategy that demands the fastest roads. But, at this point, I doubt I'm missing much by avoiding the slower backroads. Once I entered North Dakota at Fargo, I could see the entire state from there.

Never been to Fargo before, but I saw the movie. As I rolled across the surrounding flat terrain, an image from the movie came to mind of the pregnant sheriff standing roadside, ankle-deep in snow with a donut in one hand, coffee in the other, while investigating a double homicide. Never even been to North Dakota before. It marks the last of the states on this trip that I can now put on my "been-there-done-that" list, leaving only the states of Rhode Island, Delaware and Alaska that I've not been to yet. 

The wind kicked up pretty good after Fargo. I expected this state to be a windy one and it doesn't disappoint. Luckily, it was mostly head wind. Though it diminished my gas-mileage, I prefer it over the nostril-closing side-winds of Texas. I don't believe there was any change in wind direction in today's 300-mile ride, though there might have been a curve or two (certainly no more than two), which would account for some side gusts.

The only memorable sights to mention for the day are road snakes and road kill. The snakes are those traction-lacking-squiggly-patch-jobs in the asphalt. The road kill was unidentifiable due to the apparent velocity at impact. From the point of impact there's usually a fine mist of used-to-be-red fanning toward the horizon--artistry of the Great Plains. I was entertained by such things until rolling into the parking lot of the North Country Inn at Mandan, well ahead of the stormy weather that was no where to be seen. I had time to kill.

Only 9 miles from the fort, I decided to check it out.  All tours and exhibits were closed but that was okay with me. The light was just right for pictures. I paid my $5 at the gate, pleasantly surprised to learn I could stay after dark if I liked. I had the whole place to myself, taking pictures up to sunset.

While preparing to leave I encountered an Indian couple near the parking lot. The man said he was a volunteer guide at the park and, though off duty, delighted in giving me an abbreviated history of the fort. He asked if I'd toured the Custer House. I told him, no, but I planned to do just that tomorrow. He said my guide would then be Al Johnson, who he refers to as "Uncle Al". He said if I tell Al Johnson that a guy who calls him "Uncle Al" says "hi" then Al Johnson would know who it is.  Though I have no intention of getting that chummy with tomorrow's guide, I won't forget his name .... probably because I used to have a colleague named Al Johnson.

Click For PICTURES 

Authorization Pass Stuck To My Windshield

Evening At Fort Lincoln

Alexandria, MN to Mandan, ND 303 Miles