Week 41c - Theodore Roosevelt NP and into Montana

NOTE: This week is broken into multiple parts on account of having too much material for one post. The week starts here.

Let me start by adding a little commentary on white-truck-guy from week 41b. I don't want y'all to think I'm turning naive about people or trying to suppress genuine protective fear. I've been mugged before with a (supposed) gun pointed at me, and felt that kind of basic fear that's very centering. Of course in that situation I was carrying absolutely nothing to steal and wound up sitting down with the muggers and having a conversation, which they left thinking I was eccentric, which is not wrong. Maybe a better example is seeing a poisonous snake, or stumbling near the top of a cliff and getting an immediate bodily reminder to be more mindful or move away from the edge. But with white-truck-guy that wasn't it, I felt less of a fear of being harmed than an anxiety about being disliked. I'm used to people being anything from guarded to taciturn to friendly, but being directly insulted freaked me out in a cold, reptilian sort of way, even though at some level I know it couldn't have had much of anything to do with me. I don't know what right action in that situation was, maybe he wouldn't have been willing or able to be helped, maybe I actually did help in some small way, maybe I could have made a friend. Maybe it would have been pretty close to what actually happened. What I do know is that anxiety about being disliked is, for me, a force that shies me away from the kind of right action that comes from the heart. That's what I was disappointed about, and that's what I'd like to change.

Anyhow, on Wednesday afternoon I pulled into The Cottonwood Campground at Theodore Roosevelt National Park, and since they made all the spots first-come-first-served, it wasn't full, although even in the middle of the week all the shady spots with a view of the river were already taken. Things were really hopping at the national parks; I even heard you needed advance tickets just to drive through Glacier, but they were nearly impossible to get because they would sell out within minutes of being available, unless you wanted to make the drive before 6am. Anyhow I picked a decent spot and set up my tent so as to serve as a sun shelter but be open to the air. The campground did have lots of cottonwoods and junipers, and felt like a relaxing place where I'd enjoy spending a couple days. As usual, Punkin attracted attention from men of a certain age. I had a great talk with a guy who grew up on an island in Puget Sound where CT90s were very popular. He and his family were on their way to his son's wedding in North Dakota, and he offered to take me out to his island house if I ever got up into Washington. I also met BF, a retired water-quality expert from Columbus, OH. He was heading out to Idaho to watch a friend rock-climb, I accepted a few sips of his beer, and we talked about various adventures. He'd canoe-camped a lot in the Boundary Waters, which is something I'd love to do myself.

In the morning, BF took off to investigate the North Unit of the park, and I decided that I wanted to spend the day not riding a motorcycle, not even to go to a trailhead. Heck, if I was planning a future life of travel by walking, there was no reason to be lazy now. So I packed a lunch and walked the 1.5 miles to the nearest trail system at Peaceful Valley Ranch. To get to the trails, I first had to ford the Little Missouri River. I met a trio of young hikers on the other side and joined them in drying off feet and putting shoes back on. Then I headed off into the bone-dry prairie on the other side, through a maze of sagebrush and yellowed grasses, past weathered fence posts with numbers carved into them. I came out into a wide lawn dotted with little burrows: a prairie dog town! Looking out over it I counted five levels of prairie dog alarm. Farthest away from me, they were running to the closest burrow, and slightly nearer, they were standing at attention in the classic pose. Nearer still and they started to make a chipping alarm call through their fat cheeks, sounding a lot like birds. As I approached, they would go quiet and start wiggling their tails frantically as a visual signal, then all of sudden dive into their holes. Those disappearing little butts were pretty cute! Down the trail I found a hiding spot to watch the residents of another town loping around and nibbling plants in a more relaxed state.

I topped up my water bottles at an old artesian well, a tad metallic and sulfurous but nothing to complain about on such a hot day. Then I headed up the hills to the Big Plateau. Stopping to take in an awe-inspiring view of the badlands, I met the trio of young people again, who were walking the same route as me but in the opposite direction, and heard their excited story about a herd of bison blocking the trail ahead. On the top of a butte with another fine view, I stopped under a spreading juniper for lunch and a siesta, then made my way down to the high plain. The herd of bison had moved off the trail by now, but I spent some time looking at them through my binoculars. Such majestic beasts! A feeling of deep gratitude at being alive in this universe swept over me and brought tears to my eyes. As the heat of the day started to really beat down, I walked another few miles, forded the river again, and arrived back at camp tired, with my feet just on the verge of blistering. I took a second siesta while waiting for the heat to pass. Two friendly and excitable young guys from Miami moved in next door, sporting wild manes of hair and beards ala Carlos Santana in 1968, out on a grand tour of the country.

When the day cooled off, I decided to look over Punkin's electrical system to see if I could figure out the misfires, and almost at once it went horribly wrong when the spark plug boot, cheap and already starting to crumble from the heat, came apart completely. And all of a sudden I didn't have a working motorcycle. Luckily BF had found the campgrounds in the North Unit not to his liking and came back for another night, and he agreed to give me a ride to the nearest auto parts store in the morning if I needed it, even though it was out of his way. Just in case, I went around the loop asking all the handy-looking people I saw if they had a spare one, but nobody did. I tried to figure out how to make a repair but was stumped. I started feeling pretty dejected, although it was far from being a bad place to be marooned. I was soothed by phone calls from my friends JD and RM back home, and just when I'd resigned myself to taking up an hour or two of BF's time, a guy approached from across the road. "You don't really need that thing anyway," he said, "just stick a piece of wire in the end of the cable and wrap the other end around the plug." I asked if he really thought that would work, and he said he didn't know for sure, but he did know how electricity worked and it ought to. "He's a retired electrician," his wife told me. "Do you have any solid copper wire?" he asked. I only had stranded, but again I was in luck because his hobby was making jewelry out of copper wire, and he happened to have a twist of 18 gauge in his box. I did what he said, and sure enough the engine started right up! I wrapped the whole job in electrical tape and told BF he was off the hook, then he and I spent a while contentedly watching a male bison grazing on the other side of the river and swapping wildlife stories.

In the morning I had a choice to make about which NAPA store to go to. I could go to the closer one, which was only 17 miles away in Belfield, but that meant backtracking to the east. Or I could go 30 miles to the one in Beach, which would take me along my route west. I opted for the latter, and what tipped the scales was that the store had Farmer's Union affixed to the name, and I figured anyone in the business of serving farmers would know how to do unusual things to make an engine run. I kept my speed low to avoid cooking or shaking loose the improvised repair. The engine didn't run very well, but it was enough for me if it didn't stop. When I arrived, the electrical tape was a gooey mess, but it had held. I went inside and waited my turn. The guy behind the counter examined the old boot with a look that told me this wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. But although he didn't say much, he seemed both knowledgeable and determined, and he spend a long time rummaging bins and methodically turning every page in a catalog. I was extremely glad not to be making BF wait outside for all this. After a while the guy behind the counter said, "I can maybe build you a new cable, can you pull your coil out?" I went back to the parking lot, removed the coil, and brought it back in. It turned out the cable could be easily detached from it, and he started hunting for parts to make me a new one. This took some time, but the end result was well worth it. The new cable jacket was heat-resistant silicone, and the new boot was covered in high-quality rubber and solidly crimped onto the cable so it wouldn't come loose like the other had. Also the old cable had barely been long enough but I had him cut the new one three inches longer so there was room to spare. Everything went back together and I thanked the guy for his time. The whole repair, plus a roll of electrical tape, had cost less than $14. I felt vindicated for buying a cheap engine that could be repaired with generic parts.

I stopped for brunch at Buzzy's, then a hot shower at the Flying J (truck stop showers are amazing if you've never tried one), then I was on the road to Montana! There was no dramatic change in the landscape as I crossed the border, but towns became few and far between on my route. From Baker to Miles City was 82 miles of hilly rangeland, with almost no sign of human habitation except for for a rest area with a pit toilet exactly halfway. In Miles City, I headed to the Parks Department and bought a Recreational Use License for $10, which allowed me to camp for free on any state-owned lands for a year. In the office, I found out that the animals I'd been seeing by the roadside, stockier than deer and with large white patches, were pronghorns. Not technically antelopes but the closest we've got in North America. Then I headed north across the bridge and down many miles of gravel roads to find a place to camp on some patches of state land by the Yellowstone River. After a false start at a place that turned out to be too buggy, I found the perfect site under a lone, large cottonwood at the edge of a vast field of waving grass. The evening breeze was cool, dry, and refreshing, the tree whispered softly above. I watched the half-full moon rising over the field and played my jaw harp for a deer, who stood stock still listening to the strange sound.

I woke up to birdsong in the tree above, the sun covering everything with a gentle warmth. I skipped breakfast and got right on the road, but in the first few miles the air was as delicious and satisfying as a rich cup of tea. I stopped in Forsyth where the railroad met the river, and had a gourmet breakfast at The Joseph, right across the street from the gallery of Bob "The Crowbar Man" Watts, who paints quite deftly with a crowbar and apparently has a large collection of barbed wire that I would like to have seen, but unfortunately the place was closed. As I left town it was clear the misfires were getting worse, and I started to worry. I made it to the top of a bluff overlooking Billings, and fighting against the hill and the powerful headwind that was kicking up made me realize how much the engine was losing power. I pulled over behind a family that was changing a tire on their trailer, spread out my tarp as best I could in the buffeting wind, and tried to fix the problem. The fuel filter was extremely dirty, so I swapped in a new one, but that didn't fix it. I fiddled with the mixture but it only seemed to make things worse. I pulled the carburetor apart, but it was already pretty clean inside, so that wasn't it either. At one point, as I was popping the clip off the throttle needle, taking great care to hang onto the tiny clip, the needle popped out of my hand and seemed to disappear. I searched for it with increasing desperation. The ground was covered with straw from horse trailers, so if it went that far I'd literally be looking for a needle in a haystack! But when I found it hiding on the hinge of my toolbox... what a relief.

Just as I was packing up, a guy named LA came over and asked if I needed help. He went through all the engine problems he could think of and unfortunately I'd already tried all of them already, but we got into a great conversation, and he told me how he'd just come from a pistol-shooting competition with his highly customized Glock 40. He showed my a video of him competing, and it looked like quite an exciting sport, because the contestants have to start out with their pistol holstered and move rapidly around a small shooting area, hitting a large variety of targets scattered all around, some of them swinging. The kicker is that it's scored on both time and accuracy, so there's a whole lot of strategy involved. He'd grown up in Billings and told me about a boyhood adventure to the Pryor Mountains, two kids on a bike not much bigger than mine and with only one set of footpegs to share, loaded down with a cooler, a tank of gas, a rifle, a bow and arrows, and other such necessities. As we parted ways he said he was going back home to Bozeman the next day, and would have been happy to give me and Punkin a lift if he'd been driving his truck. I thanked him but said I wasn't giving up until the engine did. But I did decide to forego the scenic route and get as far west as I could in the remaining daylight. My stopping point for the week was with friends near Whitehall, and if I got close enough I'd be in range for an easy rescue. I rode down off the bluff, where the wind was mercifully gentler, stopped at a gas station picnic table for a quick meal of kefir and oats, and headed west along the route of I-90, mostly on frontage roads, but riding along the shoulder of the highway for a few miles when there was no other choice. Clouds rolled in, and dark mountains loomed up in the distance around me. I managed to go 50 more miles, stopped at a fishing access near Greycliff, and pitched a simple tarp shelter off of Punkin's handlebars, because rain was supposed to come in the wee hours of the morning. One more day's ride. I texted my friends and they said they'd be happy to pick me up if I broke down, so I could relax about the engine now.

I woke up at 3:30 in the morning. I'd noticed something the day before, which was that the engine ran okay as long as it was hot and going fast. What if the spark wasn't hot enough? When I installed a new spark plug in Beach, I hadn't checked the gap on it. There was no way I was going to be able to get back to sleep, so I got up and checked the gap. It was perfect. But now that I was out of bed, and the rain hadn't come in yet, I might as well pack up my gear while it was dry and hit the road. I was packed and out of there by 5am, still no rain. As I looked down at the speedometer I noticed that the needle, which had been waggling at high speeds since forever, had now fallen completely off. Shit was falling apart left and right. But what the heck, my mapping app could tell me my speed, and since I needed to keep the engine revving fast anyway, the gears would regulate it for me: 2nd for 25mph, 3rd for 35mph, and 4th for 45mph. Gosh it was almost like Punkin wanted to get there just as bad as me. And my early rising was well rewarded. As I climbed up the gravel of Convict Grade Road, the clouds broke up a little and the view hit me right in the chest. I was surrounded by mountain pastures as stark as Iceland. Cows looked at me placidly, and a herd of deer jumped the fences right in front of me in flawless muscular motion. To my left was a range of snow-capped mountains, and to my right a butte pushed up above the trees. The sun rising behind me shone through a gap in the clouds and lit up the hills on the other side of the valley in a vivid golden glow. I pulled over and watched until the clouds closed in and a light rain started falling. But holy shit, Montana was winning the scenery contest even on a bad weather day.

I arrived in Bozeman hungry, and found a little cafe by instinct. It being a college town, the fare was much better than I expected. As the rain started coming down outside, I was warm and dry, enjoying a frittata with artisanal sourdough toast and a pot of organic green tea direct from the farm in China. Much as I enjoy small-town diner food, a bit of luxury is nice every now and then. By the time I finished eating, the rain had stopped, and I headed west at full throttle, criss-crossing the route of Lewis and Clark. I thought about all the people buying powerful BMWs or KTMs to ride from Argentina to Alaska, and realized that I have no need to go that far to challenge myself, because the smaller the vehicle, the bigger the adventure. And there was more stunning scenery as I joined the course of the Jefferson River through a mountain pass, sheer rock faces rising up on both sides, striated with pines. I was soaked by a final cloudburst, and it wasn't even noon when I finally pulled up at my friends' ranch near Whitehall, my back tire nearly worn out, my engine limping, and my speedometer needle flopping uselessly. I made it!

Things I Learned

• There are no bears in North Dakota, which is handy because sometimes it's hard to find a good tree to hang your food from.
• The National Park only allowed horses that had been fed on "certified weed-free forage". After a minute I figured out that this wasn't to prevent stoned horses, but to prevent the spread of invasive species in the park. It's something I'd never thought of before, but I can see how seed-contaminated horse poop could be a huge problem. Unfortunately the only ways I can think of to guarantee that forage is weed free would be chemicals that probably aren't great for the horses.
• River mud with a little sand in it works nearly as well as pumice soap (aka Gojo) for getting grease off your hands. However, it doesn't smell nearly as good.

Wonderful Things

• Finding a handful of bison fur on the ground, soft as a cloud.
• Sunset through drifting cottonwood seeds.
• Watching a pronghorn jump along the edge of an irrigation sprinkler to cool off.