"Reaching the plains he found them glorious. Their endless roll, the way the sky matched it. The smell of sage crushed in the hand, or juniper wafted out from the sheltered hollows. How the wind came down off the Rockies testing everything in its path, destroying many, but giving those who withstood it an added boost to each step, so he seemed blown willy-nilly toward his future..."
-- W. D. Wetherell, North of Now, 1998
Numerous times before I reached the Great Plains I was told that I was going the wrong way.
"The wind blows west to east across the prairie. You'll be fighting it the whole way!"
Nevertheless, I was steadfast in my decision and mentally prepared myself for the onslaught. After all, I had faced many days of commuting on my bicycle through 20-30 mph winds blowing off Long Island Sound, albeit for a very short distance compared to what I hoped to travel over the prairies. Still, I was up for the challenge.
It all turned out to be hearsay. Leaving Minnesota behind and exiting Fargo's west side onto the flattest landscape I had yet seen, I was graced with 25+ mph tailwinds which rolled me over the Earth's gentle curve like a marble. Almost no pedal power was required to match the wind's speed, my panniers acting as a sail. I did not want to stop that day, sensing the Rockies and the Pacific were only a few gusts away.
There hasn't been a force to match that one since, tailwind or headwind (though yesterday's westerly was close). It may be true that the weather usually moves east across the states, but the ground-level winds seem to blow whichever way they wish and they change their minds daily. With that kind of variation, an occasional headwind is tolerable.
My own fear about the plains had nothing to do with the weather. I was anticipating 'prairie madness,' a mania affecting those used to regularly seeing trees and hills and people. A bleak, desolate landscape may seem endless as it slides by the glass windows of an automobile, but it would absolutely ooze eternally through my sepia sunglasses when passing at bicycle speed, drawing me not nearer to my destination, but ever closer to insanity, or so I thought.
Of course, this was another misconception. In fact the prairie comes alive when you take a moment to stand encompassed by it. The wind dances through the tall grasses, western meadowlarks sing their flute-like notes and ground squirrels duck in and out of their expansive network of tunnels. I was pleased to find veins of hilly country which criss-cross the land and thickets of poplar and elm bordering the grain fields. Marshes and ponds are also numerous and provide homes to a host of waterfowl such as American coots, American white pelicans, western grebes and the cyclist-hating black terns.
I won't lie and say my head swiveled in excitement at the crest of each little rise in the road, but the symptoms of madness were held at bay by some new wonder every day.
Additionally, two causes for detour kept me involved and invested with the paved roads which are scarce in this part of the country.
I believe it is nationally known that parts of North Dakota have been experiencing record flooding, none worse than the Souris River region around the city of Minot. Eleven thousand residents were evacuated and major highways were closed indefinitely. One of these roads is US-2 and was to be my route through 'Little Chicago' as Minot was once called when Al Capone smuggled liquor through it's underground tunnels.
I obtained a state highway map from a game warden and struck out on my own path which, after three hot days, delivered me into the south, high-and-dry side of Minot. That day was July 4th and the fireworks were exploding with hope in the night sky over the city.
It wasn't until I was leaving the next day that I saw evidence of the flood. As I descended a hill toward the Souris, I spotted a neighborhood of homes near it's bank, sitting casually in five feet of water. I continued out of town and saw several farms turned into lakes. I know this was only a small fraction of the devastation, but what I saw seemed surreal.
West of the high waters, touring cyclists have another inconvenience to face. Recent oil mining activity has resulted in an increased amount of traffic, particularly that of semi trucks. Part of the Northern Tier route has undergone a permanent change to avoid roads with narrow shoulders now carrying these behemoths of high speed. Nevertheless, I still had to suffer a certain amount of gusts, fumes and rumbling as the trucks passed me on US-2 and connecting county roads.
The treeless landscape does little to hide the unsightly oil wells which dot the small hillsides surrounding Williston, ND. This town has seen a sudden boom in its economy, as the population has nearly doubled to fill the jobs necessary to mine the crude. One man told me that jobs at Walmart and McDonalds are paying double that of the rest of the country just to have enough employees to meet the demands of all the newcomers.
The city park had 'No Camping' signs where they once allowed cyclists to sleep so, needless to say, I didn't stay very long in the area. The oil business faded away as I traveled farther west into Montana.
Big Sky Country plains remain bleak, but there are several different features of note. The northern reaches of badlands poke unexpectedly out of some of the hillsides which make for relatively steeper climbs on the roads. The ground seems generally drier and dusty, though the nearby Missouri River has seen its share of flooding this year as well. Some new birds grace the sky too, such as black-billed magpies, Eurasian collared-doves and prairie falcons.
My rest day for the week was spent in the Montana city of Wolf Point during their annual Wild Horse Stampede Rodeo celebration. The Stampede is a three day event consisting of a parade, a carnival, street dances and of course the rodeo each night. Wolf Point is the largest city on the Fort Peck Indian Reservation, so naturally a sizable portion of the population is Native American. This made for an interesting cultural mix of cowboys and Indians celebrating together.
I stood on the Main Street sidewalk on Friday afternoon among many local folks speaking in a combined accent of Siouan and Montanan. As the usual small town parade floats and classic cars ambled down the street, the children hurriedly scooped up the candy which rained down upon them and placed equal amounts in plastic shopping bags and their mouths.
The event was over quickly and many people started to make the journey toward the carnival. I stopped in an unusual establishment for such a small, poor town: a microbrewery. Regardless, Missouri Breaks Brewing was bustling with activity. After a pint and a chat with a local school teacher, I biked on down to Marvin Brookman Stadium where the evening's rodeo entertainment was just getting underway.
Admittedly I've never once been to such an event, nor had much ambition to do so, but since Wild Horse Stampede is touted Montana's leading rodeo, I felt an obligation to attend while I was so near.
Before I had even locked up my bicycle, a scalper sold me a half-price ticket. I made my way to the bleachers through a sea of denim and ten gallon hats, feeling a bit under-dressed in my shorts and t-shirt. I was also missing the requisite plastic grocery sack filled with melting ice and six cans of cheap beer that was being vended below our seats.
If there had been an explanation of the event's rules and scoring (I'm sure that there wasn't), then I undoubtedly missed it, because I was completely lost while I watched the cowboys ride broncos and wrestle steers, gaining and losing points for respective flourishes and failures unseen by me. Nonetheless, I enjoyed my new experience and returned to my campsite feeling a little bit more American.
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