North Dakota or Bust! Return Leg

 

Sure enough, Highway 12 was about 12 miles away from the edge of the pavement.  A left turn would take me to Baker, MT and I could go home via Highways 7 and 323.  But turning right would be a more direct route, and allow me to explore a bit more of this corner of North Dakota.

And so far, the curves and rocky escarpment in the distance made me think I'd made a good choice.

This is Marmarth, ND - on the far southern edge of the Missouri National Grassland, which occupies a rather large extent of western North Dakota.  The town's glory days have obviously passed, but it's still an interesting place with a few open businesses.

The day had finally begun to heat up, so I chose a nice shady spot for a break.  Across the street was an architecturally unique old "THEATRE" (on the right) and a not quite so unique cafe.

As I dismounted, a guy exited the restaurant and returned to his bike that I had parked beside - also a three-wheeler, but with two in the front.  We spent a few minutes discussing our bikes (of course) before he took off heading west.

I've thought a bit about that type of vehicle.  They make a version that is more off-pavement capable, though not as much so as the Ural.  The primary benefit would be that they don't have any trouble keeping up with traffic on higher speed and/or steep mountain roads.  They also don't have gears to shift or clutches to pull, so they're easier to ride.  Depending on how my MS progresses, two-wheeled vehicles may soon be completely out for me, so the Ryker Rally (that's what the semi-off-road one is called)  might allow me to keep riding longer and cover more miles per day.

And now back to the main reason I stopped here in the first place - another sticker!  Eight states for the mighty Ural now.  Assuming the rest of this trip goes fairly well, I'd be filling in a large section to the south in a couple of weeks!

That done, I began suiting back up to leave when I spotted this fella!  Evidently, he had been hitching a ride under this flap on my jacket since I passed through one of those areas close to the river.  I knew I'd encountered some bugs, but I hadn't realized there'd been grasshoppers.

I flicked him off onto the sidewalk.  Hopefully he will be able to make a new life for himself in Marmarth.  Perhaps that had been his intention all along!  I'm sure it can get lonely down along the Camp Crook Road.

There was no gas in Marmarth, so I stopped again at the next town on Highway 12 - Rhame, about 15 miles distant.  After filling up, I was getting back in the saddle to leave when a lady sprang out of the store shouting, "Wait!  There's a guy here with a bike just like yours who wants to talk to you."

And just then, the garage door opened and out came the shop mechanic, pushing his latest project!  It's a 1980-something Ural, with even more old school charm (and technology) than mine.  He was just as interested in my 2020 model as I was in his.  He'd only got it to run for 10 miles or so at a time, but had been in some local parades - to the crowd's sheer delight, of course!

You know how pet owners start to look like their dogs after a few years (it's true) - motorcyclists are often the same way.  And this guy certainly does, right down to the colors of his daily outfit.  Amazing!  He was a great guy, and we chatted for perhaps 20 minutes.  Never thought I'd run into another Uralista at the gas station in Rhame, ND.

There was no sign for 733, which my AAA map showed heading straight south from Rhame, but it was the only paved junction in town, so I took it.  The blacktop was supposed to continue all the way to Buffalo, SD - but at about where the state line should have been, it abruptly ended!

I was pretty sure I was on the right road though, so I kept going.  Within a few miles, a paved road took off to the east, and I decided I'd better take that one.  My map showed it joining up with Highway 85, only about 10 miles out of my way.  But then, I looked back...

Road 733 continued - with a very nice gravel surface - around a very alluring curve.  Ten miles farther east meant 20 miles more total.  Part of the appeal of this kind of trip for me is returning as closely as possible to my ETA.  Leaving the pavement  always costs some time, but by what I could see of this road, it wouldn't delay me much.  Of course, conditions could change.  I was torn, as I often am.  Indecisiveness is one of my personality flaws - but I've only got a couple, so I manage.

If you placed your bets on me taking the gravel route - you win!  My guess is that it WAS paved, but road crews had torn it up to start from scratch with a completely new surface.  The ND end had been very recently paved, so SD was probably just trying to keep up with their neighbor!

Soon my suspicions were confirmed, as I encountered construction equipment.  The road was still pretty good though, so I wasn't too concerned.  I did take the time to stop and ask a worker if indeed I was on the road to Buffalo, and he assured me I was - and that the pavement would resume in just a few more miles. 

And that's exactly what happened.  I'm pretty sure the trees there constitute the section of National Forest I had spotted from a dozen miles to the west that morning.  Quite nice.

I joined up with Highway 85 just north of Buffalo and continued south towards Rapid City, 115 miles distant at this point.

And then, the headwinds began to blow!

By the time I reached Crow Buttes, just south of Redig, I was most definitely ready for a break!  The Ural has two nemeses - gravel washboards and strong headwinds.  Okay, there are a couple more, but we'll just take two at a time.  A motorcycle with a sidecar will naturally pull to the right because of all that dead weight over there.  You can counter a lot of that by toeing in the car wheel toward the bike (aligning it correctly).  But when a headwind beats against the car, it acts like a sail - or more like an air brake.  And it acts upon the car a lot more than it does the bike.  The result is a twisting force of the entire rig to the right.  Now even this can be counteracted, but only by brute force.  My shoulders, arms, wrists, and hands were killing me!  Doesn't that make you want to get a Ural?

But at least I wasn't dying of thirst like the Crows on those buttes in the summer of 1822.  And it's not what you might think.  The white man had nothing to do with it.

I took 168 (a little connector spur) to 79, then headed south again.  That brought me right past Bear Butte State Park.  At nearly 4,500 feet, it rises quite prominently above the surrounding topography.  There's a foot trail that goes to the top, or you can settle for the view from the saddle (I'm learning to lower my expectations).  Will have to put that on the list for this fall.

Just before merging onto I90 for the short jaunt back to Rapid, I passed through the infamous Sturgis, South Dakota - home of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.  We'd stayed far away during the 10-day event early last month - way too crowded for my taste - but on this day, it was quite pleasant.  Bonus points if you can spot the second, smaller white "STURGIS" sign on the mountain.

I pulled into my garage around 5:30 - 11 hours after my departure, and right on schedule.  And yes, I'd made it in time for supper!

North Dakota or Bust! Arrival

 

Just past the little white church where I left you last time, I entered the town of Capitol, MT.  It's hard to believe Capitol was ever the capital of anything, but who knows?  A scattering of buildings, both old and new, indicated that the place was not entirely abandoned.

The trees and distant mountains made it a pleasant place to visit - if only very briefly.  Somewhere near here I'd planned to turn right, cross the river, and head back into South Dakota.

There it is - and a nice new bridge, at that!  Continuing straight would have carried me deeper into Montana, but I was heading to the farther north of the two Dakotas today.

Can you have too many shots from the same bridge - I think not.  Especially when there's a beautiful motorcycle parked on it!  If I didn't want to get home for supper, I could easily have spent an hour under one of those massive cottonwoods.  The term "bucolic" comes to mind.  And yes, I looked it up - that's what I meant to say.

I think those green-topped highlands are an isolated section of the Custer National Forest.  I'd be passing closer by there on my way back south in the afternoon.

But now I'd turn north again, on South Camp Crook Road.  Seems a bit counterintuitive, but we're to the south of Camp Crook, so yes, it makes sense.  Side note: I'm so sorry this photo is not a video.  If you've never seen the way a stiff breeze makes ever-changing patterns in tall prairie grass, you're missing out on one of nature's most mesmerizingly beautiful phenomenons.

Lest you get the impression that all this morning's roads were straight, I've included this picture of a curve.  You know it's a curve because the sign says so!  Just a little northern plains humor.

The last 12 miles were supposed to be paved - according to my map.  They were not.  But the gravel was so nicely maintained that I probably would not have gone any faster if they were.  A cattle guard marked my arrival at Highway 20, after 34 miles off the pavement.  Just to the left should be the town of Camp Crook, SD.

"POP. 60," the sign reads - and I was about to meet around 10% of them!

Wolffy's Garage was the place to be that afternoon.  They're all around on the other side.  I didn't need gas, but figured a cold beverage and a snack were certainly in order!

Just in case I'd brought some food with me, this fella checked me out pretty good upon arrival.  Or maybe he was the security detail.  Either way, I was rapidly cleared to proceed.

Once inside, I selected a Mellow Yellow and a small bag of nuts, and began chatting with the proprietor.  He confirmed he was the one I had made contact with earlier in the week about whether or not fuel would be available.  They don't get many tourists in town, he admitted, but then recounted a story of a touring bicyclist who came in recently and bought so many groceries that he could barely fit it all in his bags!    

Upon my exit, I realized that guard duty had rotated since I'd gone in.  This one, however, seemed more interested in the motorcycle than me.  No doubt he wanted a ride.  Dogs just LOVE sidecars, it's true.  But I haven't had one in mine - yet.

The road I wanted was just past the store.  I turned north onto Main Street and made my way deftly through the crowd - Okay, not really.  Named for George Crook, an army officer, the town was founded in 1883, but I'm not sure if there was ever a military camp here or not.

Camp Crook probably deserves a bit more exploration, but I pressed on, my sights set on North Dakota, as the interesting little town receded to the south.

It should be about 25 miles to the border, but I realized it was highly unlikely there would be a sign.  I had searched for a landmark of some sort on the aerial photos that would clue me in when I was close, but couldn't find anything distinguishing.   When I got to the pavement again - at around mile 43, I'd know for certain I was there. 

Not far out of town, I encountered some freshly graded (and watered) gravel.  I'd been warned about this back at the store.

But what was always a bit disconcerting on two wheels is not a problem at all with three.  The Ural just plows right through - bring it on!

I passed the grader, waving at the operator, and then the surface became so smooth and solid that I upped my speed to 50 mph.  I was really flying now!  Those breaks in the grass ahead looked interesting, though.  I wondered what it was.

A mini badlands, like the National Park to the southeast, provided something worth stopping for.  That one on the right looks like a pile of road surfacing rock, but it's all naturally in place.

Stretching off behind was a canyon of sorts, where all the soil and softer rock had been washed away.  With the giant cottonwoods, the river, and now this, the trip was turning out to be more scenic than I had anticipated.

Well over the estimated 25 miles from Camp Crook now, I knew I was in North Dakota - the Ural's 8th U.S. State.  The gorge created by the Little Missouri was much deeper here.  You can see its rocky western wall not far from the road ahead.

I crossed it here for the last time - on the gravel portion of my journey anyway.  I had never been all that far from it for the last 90 miles or so.

Now I started seeing operating oil wells - another indication that I was in North Dakota.  And interestingly, also a common sight in Oklahoma, the state where I grew up.  Guess I can add oil wells to the list of things that have made me feel oddly at home here in a region where I had never lived before.

As expected, the pavement resumed about 12 miles south of North Dakota's portion of U.S. Highway 12 - at least that's where I assumed I was.  If you don't count the blacktop within the city limits of Camp Crook, I'd been on gravel for 77 miles - not a bad stretch.  From this point, I'd be on pavement for the rest of the day - or so I thought.

North Dakota or Bust! Montana

 

What?  Is he back in the Pacific Northwest, you ask.  No, still in South Dakota, but the weather on this particular morning sure reminded me of the Oregon coast!  First fill-up was just a mile from the house, near the southwest edge of Rapid City.  It had stormed quite violently the night before, and the streets were still all wet by 6:30, when I headed out.  According to the forecast, the rain should be over for the day, but it sure didn't look that way.

My second fill-up was in the town of Belle Fourche (pronounced Bell Foosh).  It's famous - among other things, surely - for being at the geographic center of the United States (when you include Alaska and Hawaii).  It's a fairly pleasant little place, but all I'd be doing here today is filling my main tank and my extra jerrycan with pure (no corn) 91 octane dinosaur juice.  Actually, gasoline comes from mostly dead and long-buried plants, but that's a topic for another episode.

I'd called ahead to the next semi-real town I'd be passing through and asked a general store owner about gas there.  "No, not since we had to dig up the leaking storage tanks," was the reply.  So I had about 145 miles to the next gas station, and an average range of 150.  Too close for my comfort, hence the extra fuel!  Fortunately the Ural came stock with this 2.5 gallon steel can.

After cutting across the extreme northeast corner of Wyoming, I entered Montana - the Ural's first visit!  Well, Keith and I had trailered it through the state when Kim and I moved to the region about four months ago, but that doesn't count.

By the time I'd reached the border, the fog was so thick I was wiping it off my helmet's face shield with my glove, while I rode.  Something I had grown quite used to in Tillamook, but never thought I'd have to deal with here.

Just outside of Albion, I encountered another oddity - a stoplight... in the middle of nowhere, with no other structures and no one around, save the man in the pickup truck ahead of me.  I waited, primarily because he waited.  I got off the bike, took a drink of water, ate a granola bar.  And still, we waited.  Finally I approached his window, and after a cordial greeting I asked, "So, what exactly are we waiting for?"

As it turned out, it was not his first time.  He was a local oil field worker and knew that this was the start of a 10-mile stretch of road construction.  It also just happened that we were headed the same direction - towards Camp Crook, 32 miles northeast along a gravel road that turned off the pavement, just around that next corner, he said.  Nice fella, with a long, well-kept beard, he was.  Gotta respect that.

I walked back to my rig and there was still not a single car behind us - and by this time, it had probably been 15 minutes!  No, it was not a heavy traffic day.  About the time I'd put away my drink again, however, the pilot car appeared on the horizon.  It was go time!

Within a mile, we'd both pealed off, and left the pilot car alone to wonder where we'd gone!  Capitol was a ghost town of sorts, about 2/3 of the way to Camp Crook - according to my map.  After 100 miles of pavement, the true adventure was about to start.

But from what I could see of Albion, it was a ghost town too.  But perhaps there's more to this town on the other side of the highway.  I'll leave it for next time.

Guess I should tell you about the day's plan.  One objective had already been met - I'd ridden to Montana on the Ural!  But one objective was not enough for this trip.  I also wanted to make it to North Dakota - and back, preferably.  Yes, I could have met both objectives and remained on the pavement, but that would not be nearly as adventurous!  The route I had mapped out would involve about 70 miles of gravel - or so I thought.  Total miles should be around 370, and I hoped to complete the trip in 11 hours, including stops.

I didn't expect too much more than this from the scenery, but I was interested in the old towns and isolated structures along the route - and for the chance to see if I could still do nearly 400 miles in a day on the three-wheeled beast.  Since my MS diagnosis (now official after additional tests) I have experienced some worsening issues in my legs and feet primarily.  I hadn't put in a full day of riding in months, and honestly wasn't sure I could.

This was important, because I'd been planning another trip for the last couple of weeks.  One that would be significantly longer than this one - about six times longer!  In place of my original plan to return to the wilds of far northern Canada this year, I've been considering (OK, it's really all set) a Ural journey to Oklahoma.  It's been a tough year for the family, especially my siblings.  And now with my news too, I just want to go home for a bit.

These big trees were a welcome addition to the landscape, and if you look closely, you can see some highlands off to the left.  Might get more interesting than I thought!  Also note the puddles in the road.  Some were much larger than these, but there were none that I couldn't straddle between the bike and the sidecar.  Good thing about the recent rain was that the moisture had settled the dust, normally the bane of these kind of roads in the summer months.

I'd thought I must be getting close, and then I spotted it - hard to miss, as there is nothing else around.  It had come up in a quick internet search on the area.  Thought it would make a good break spot.

My route had thus far roughly paralleled the Little Missouri River - and would continue to do so for half the day.  Hence the name of this little white church, dating from 1889!  

Imagine living out here at the turn of the century, making, sustaining (against all odds) a life from the land.  Then driving your horse and buggy to this same church, parking in this same spot, meeting together each week with your distant neighbors to praise "The Lord who gives and takes away.  Blessed be the Name of The Lord!"  If you'll pardon my somewhat loose translation of Job 1:21.

This is a picture that would look much better if my father had taken it with his much better camera - and his much better skill!  But I had to try.

This was the perfect opportunity to do something I had neglected to do back at the Montana border.  Since my last trip, I'd applied an RV sticker to the sidecar which outlines all the U.S. states.  It also came with 50 tiny multi-colored stickers to fill in each space as you get there.  Here I hold the one for our 41st state.  Guess what year it was admitted to the union?  That's correct, 1889 - the very same year this church was built!

There - All done.  That makes seven states so far for the mighty Ural!  And I haven't even had it for three years yet.