I also went to visit Dwight, the librarian, who the day before had offered to let me use his computer to see how my web page looks. I hadn't seen it for 10 days and I had this great fear that I had somehow trashed it, and was riding on blissfully unaware of the chaos. With a few minor glitches it seemed ok, but I didn't have time to exercise everything.
On my way out of town I spotted an espresso shop, so I had to stop for a cup of real coffee, and spent a good long time lingering over it. A woman who was cycling westward was also sipping coffee, and we exchanged information about what to expect. She has been camping but I suggested the $18 room at the Howdy Hotel in Forsyth was a bargain. She told me that there was nothing on my route for 68 miles, and that it had been something of a struggle fighting against the headwind. People seem so surprised when they encounter the prevailing westerlies. I am actually a bit surprised that my tailwind has been so ever-present, but I'm not complaining.
With that word of warning, I stopped by the grocery store to stoke up and then around noon pushed off for Baker. I had a big tailwind the entire way, which made the going a lot easier. But the temperature was in the high nineties, and it took its toll. I was pretty drained by the time I rolled into Baker, having stopped for water about 15 miles shy of the destination in a little town called Plevna.
I found the Plevna elementary/middle/high school open and got some water out of the drinking fountain there. It had a slightly off taste, and a slippery texture, and I was reminded of the mention that Babcock had made of the alkali water they encountered. I also remembered the woman in Hardin, who said she could not take the water in North Dakota. I had dismissed this as regionalism, but now see that it had nothing to do with the political borders; it was all about the geology of the aquifers.
Babcock and Turner were glad to have Montana done with, but were quite intimidated by the prospect of the Badlands:
We had been told that from Glendive to Dickinson, through the Bad Lands, we would have a very hard time, and we had been dreading it for a week. The simple expression Bad Lands had worried us, and sometimes at night we would wake up with visions of silent, stoney buttes, boiling sun, no water and long weary miles. We were told we would have to follow the railroad the entire 116 miles. At Glendive, however, we learned that we could go to Wibaux by wagon road. We did so, finding it better than many of the roads farther west, and reached Wibaux in the evening. That town is practically owned by Mr. Wibaux, the cattle king, who has something like 60,000 cattle on the range. When we awoke at 3 o'clock the next morning, and slowly pushed out past the stock pens, the cow punchers were already at work branding a large consignment of cattle which had recently been shipped from Texas. It was to us a novel sight and e dismounted for a moment to watch operations. Very few wheels are used in that vicinity and ours were closely inspected and when, in answer to inquiries, we stated that we had ridden from Seattle, many forcible ejaculations escaped the boys. It was more than their broncos could do, and the boys will swear by their mounts.
It is still not clear which way I shall be going tomorrow. If at all possible I would like to go through Bismarck, ND but the towns are quite sparse and the rooms to let are accordingly sparse as well. The jury is still out on this verdict.
87 miles today, and with the help from the solitary woman, I was able to complete the distance in short order.
On the road to Boston.
Dennis