Three Wheels North: No Room at the Inns

 

My departure from Milk River, Alberta, was a trip record - 0630.  Not bad at all.  I was really looking forward to this day.  After a bit of Interstate 15, I'd follow mostly new-to-me backroads through Montana all the way to Billings, or wherever I felt like stopping.  Getting home to Rapid City, SD, should be a fairly easy two days from here.

Of course, I had to cross back into the U.S. first at the Port of Coutts/Sweetgrass, but I wasn't anticipating much trouble.

Just like entering Canada a couple days before, there was only one vehicle ahead of me!  In the developing world, they really frown on taking photos at international borders.  I suppose they don't care as much in Canada, but I did it on the sly (from the hip) anyway.  On the plus side, I unintentionally got a great shot of the right end of my custom cross-bar pad, showing my initials and the cool little pewter globe pin.  Thanks again, Rich!

The Ural is exceptionally good at a couple of things - and deserted backroads is one of them!  It helped that the surface was so nice, and that I'd never been there before.  I finally had one of those moments where everything was just perfect!  It was the first time this trip.  

If I just could have made it past the parks - out of the crowds...  But I tried not to go there yet.  I was having fun for a change!  There'd be plenty of time for more post-incident analysis later.  I was actually anxious to get moving again.  I remember that feeling!

And it lasted all the way to the small town of Roundup.  It was mid afternoon by then, hot, and I was thinking I'd quit early.  Unfortunately, everyone else traveling through that day had the same thought - or they had reservations.  I went to all three motels in town, and they were all full!  One of them is across the street behind me.  I  hid out in the shade of an enormous tree until I'd come up with a Plan B.

Plan B had been to keep going to Billings.  I did not want to camp again.  Maybe on the outskirts of the city, there'd be a national chain that would still have a vacancy.  I did not want to stay in the center.

But the center is where I stopped to get gas - and sit on this curb in the shade.  There had been nothing to the north, and I'd come in from the south on Day One of this trip, so I knew there was nothing there.

Did I mention it was HOT?

This is Plan C - the only motel in Ashland, MT.  The highway sign out front said NO VACANCY, but I had to check.  There had been an even more troubling sign coming in - 96 Degrees!

I was now on one of the primary routes west from the Rapid area, so I'd passed through Ashland a few times before in the 14 months since we moved to South Dakota.  It's a quaint little town that I've wanted to spend some time exploring.  Hopefully, this would provide that time. 

Guess not.  The office was locked, and there was yet another NO VACANCY sign on the door - my fourth rejection of the afternoon!

As I weighed my dwindling options for Plan D, I scanned the area, and look what I found!  It was a beacon of hope in a hot and weary world - a Mtn Dew machine!  There was little chance (so late in the day) of any remaining product inside, but again - I had to try...

And that is when my fortunes finally began to improve!  As I drank my ice cold beverage under the shaded overhang of the vacant motel (that was somehow fully booked), I decided to continue on to Broadus.  Forty-five miles farther east on Highway 212, it's no bigger than Ashland, but I knew it had another motel - and a campground.  If I couldn't get a bed there, I'd give up and set up the tent.  It was already 7:00, and I didn't want to ride at night - lots of large four-legged wildlife in these parts.

Pulling up to the Broadus Motel an hour later, I immediately noticed that only the word VACANCY was lit!  There was also an OPEN sign hanging on the glass door.  I may have arrived!

There, see what I mean?  It was even old-school neon.  I liked that.  As I climbed the stairs to the porch, I got a strong feeling that I'd been there before.

When I stepped into the office, I knew for sure.  It was 2017.  I was on my first KTM.  I'd been heading east from our home in Oregon to rack up the last nine states I needed - to have ridden a motorcycle in all 50!  While not all on the same trip, it had all been on the same bike - except for Hawaii, where I'd rented one.  Funny, it feels like it's been much longer than six years.  A lot has happened since then.

Anyway, back to 2023, I began to worry when no one was around.  I rang the bell on the desk though, and I wasn't alone for long.

My room was across the parking lot on the first floor.  OK, it was a bit sketch.  But there were a couple of other decent vehicles out front.  That always makes me feel somewhat better.  Don't know if it should.  Last time, this unit had been booked up, so I was sent to a sister property down the street.  I remember it was only one story but similarly maintained.

When I walked in - I immediately walked out.  The bed looked like someone had just gotten out of it and hurriedly tossed the covers back towards the ruffled pillows.  I assumed there'd been a mistake - that I'd been given a room that hadn't been cleaned yet.  The old guy who checked me in was on the porch, so I called him over.  "No, I just made that bed this morning," he assured me.  "The sheets are a little wrinkled, that's all."  "Well, if that's what it looked like when you left - and you're sure no one else has been in here since."  I studied his face for any signs he might be lying.  "I'm okay with wrinkles," I relented.  

And I was.  If it had been before 8:00 pm, and I hadn't ridden 530 miles that day - and there was any other option...  Things likely would have gone differently.  For some reason, I trusted him.  We ended up chatting quite a bit, actually.  An interesting chap with a British accent, he was.  Told me the pizza place across the junction might still be open if I went now.  So I did.

Seabeck Pizza & Subs was behind the bowling alley.  I guess pizza is the thing to have in rural Montana.  It's what I'd had my first night out, if you recall.

Wanted to get a little closer shot of that sign, in case you missed it.  Under the name of the establishment is the compelling slogan, "You have to eat something.  EAT THIS!"  Very appropriate for the only eatery in town.

 For something different, I ordered a meatball sub.  Unlike the place in White Sulphur Springs, the A/C was working very well!  But it wasn't bad outside now, so when my order came, I took it to a patio table and settled down.

Wow.  It was amazing!  Best meatball sub I've ever had.  I stopped at half though, packaging up the rest for brunch the next day.  Didn't want to push my gastrointestinal luck.  As I finished, the woman who appeared to be in charge came out, and I thanked her profusely.  I think they'd been closing up when I arrived.

It was getting dark as I walked back to the motel.  It's the two shadowy buildings on the corner.  I fiddled around with the bike some more to the sound of booming pyrotechnics.  It was the Fourth of July, after all.  

The first rocket burst right overhead as I was heading for my room.  Turning back, I stood and watched as several more impressive rounds exploded in full view from the parking lot!  The proprietor came out too, and we enjoyed the show together.  He didn't know who was shooting them off - was just as surprised as I was.  But it could not have been better, if we were doing it ourselves.  

Perhaps Roundup, or Billings, or Ashland would have been good places to stay as well, but it was hard to imagine a more fitting final night on the road, or a more appropriate place to celebrate our nation's founding.  Tiny, one-stop-light Broadus, with all its rough edges and friendly accommodating folks - was my kind of town.

Happy belated Independence Day!

  

Three Wheels North: About Face

 

I departed my campsite at the Fort Steele Resort at 0700 hours.  As I idled up to the highway, I still had not decided which way to turn.  All my long bike trips begin with a fair amount of doubt.  Is the machine ready?  Have I packed the right gear?  Will the weather cooperate?  Will the roads be passable?  Will my skill and awareness be up to the task of making it X,000 miles without an accident?  As I've stated before, it's a wonder I ever leave the house!

On every previous trip for the last 30+ years (except two), the doubts have faded as the miles piled up.  Those two times were the previous two times I tried to make it to Tuktoyaktuk.  Like the unseen forces at work in the Bermuda Triangle, a giant invisible bungee cord is tied to the rear axle.  The farther I ride, the harder it pulls back!  Can I snap it this time?  Can I break free and finally make it to Tuk?

It was a beautiful morning.  The Ural was running great.  I felt great.  But I still turned left, south - towards home.  I suppose I'll never fully understand why.

I made it 20 miles - to the sideroad the bike is parked on in the photo above.  

What am I doing?  What's wrong with me?  I've spent months prepping for this trip - years, really.  As I stood there, frozen beside the road, another Ural went by - heading NORTH!

That's very unusual.  In nearly four years of Ural ownership, I've maybe seen three others on the road.  I hopped back aboard and took off after him.  If I could catch him, perhaps we could ride together for a while.  Even if he wasn't going as far north as I'd planned, some time together might help me break that cord!

As my old-school steed slowly gained momentum, I knew I'd never catch up.  But if he'd noticed me, surely he'd pull over and stop - might even turn around.  I know I would!

But he didn't.  

A few miles later, I turned into this rest area to use the "facilities" and to give myself longer to try and sort things out.

I hadn't had breakfast back at camp.  "There was your first mistake!" my Seattle friend would certainly point out.  But I had picked some up along the way.  I had a feeling my angst was not something that would be cured by a Mtn Dew and a blueberry muffin, but it was worth a try.  It was a new Dew flavor, after all - raspberry lemonade!

To make a long painful story a little shorter (but in truth, no less painful), my power breakfast didn't work.

OK, I'll fill in a few more details.  But I warn you, it's pitiful.  Coming out of the rest area, I turned south - again.  But this time, I only made it a mile before doing a U-turn and heading north!  Maybe the Dew did have an effect, but it was delayed - and temporary.

I continued north, past the campground where my ill-fated day had begun - an hour and a half earlier.  I was still feeling fairly positive when I stopped for gas in Radium Hot Springs - another hour and a half after that.  But in Banff National Park, amongst some of the most spectacular mountains in the world, the bungee was stretched so tight that the Ural could hardly move.  It didn't help that the road climbed relentlessly as the steady traffic flew around me.  If I could push just a little more, it would surely break and I'd be free!  But the thought of getting any farther from home, of increasing the risk of roadside repairs in the now hot sun - I just couldn't do it.

At the junction with Highway 1 (near Lake Louise), the bungee cord finally snatched back, and I was hurtled with steadily increasing velocity towards South Dakota.  In more literal terms, I took a turn to the east and immediately began descending out of the mountains towards Calgary, Alberta.  There would be no more turnarounds.

As soon as I got up to speed, I noticed that the spare wheel was rocking back and forth on its mount on top of the sidecar!  I pulled over at this scenic viewpoint to tighten the giant nut that holds it in place.  I then realized I hadn't taken any pictures of the scenery before that.  That's how out-of-the-moment I'd been.  I hadn't really been enjoying the ride at all.

This is not a very good shot - what with the bushes sticking up behind the bike and all.  But these two, from the same parking area, are the only ones I have of the mountains for the entire trip.  Would be even more of a shame not to show it.  And it truly was a beautiful day!

"What exactly went wrong?" you're probably asking.  Me too!  And we'll delve into that a bit more later.

I passed by Banff and an hour later began skirting around the southwest edge of Calgary, AB.  Traffic had been horrible from the moment I entered the park.  It was Canada Day.  Yes, I knew I'd be north of the border for our neighbor's version of Independence Day (but without the war - or the independence), but I'd done that before and it wasn't too bad.  Guess back then I hadn't been riding between one of the country's largest cities and one of its most popular national parks!  Lesson learned.  I hope.

South of the city things improved dramatically.  I cruised through Lethbridge and headed for the U.S. border at Coutts.  I didn't know what to expect there, so when I saw a nice-looking motel in Milk River, only 20 km north of Montana, I decided to check it out.  The exchange rate was quite favorable, so I could likely get a better lodging deal here - and I was ready to park it for the night!

The scenery was exactly what you'd expect in the northern plains - and had been since leaving the Rockies.  I'd never been through this part of Alberta before, but it turns out, I hadn't been missing much.

My room, on the other hand, was even better on the inside than it was on the out!  Everything was modern, spotless, and very comfortable.  And I had a door to the parking lot, as well as one to the interior hallway.  This was going to be the perfect place to begin my physical and emotional recovery process.

As most Canadian roadside inns do, this one had an equally clean and tidy (though characterless) restaurant attached.  The gentleman down there was bicycling cross-country, and he and I were the only diners when I first sat down.  By no fault of his own, he did not help my feelings of inadequacy!

The view from my table was of the car wash and auto repair shop across the street.  No matter.  I was cool and comfortable - and was about to have a hot meal, and then a hot shower!  Maybe if I only rode in the mornings and gave up camping, I could still succeed at these uber-long journeys I used to enjoy so much - and be so good at.  But that would take twice as long (a month for this one) and be twice as expensive.  One of the last things I told my wife before I left the house was, "I wish it wasn't so far."  

I'd gone way over my target maximum miles per day - 480 miles.  That didn't help.  But with the four-lane around Banff and Calgary, I'd still gotten my room key about 12 hours after breaking camp.  Not bad.  I should be home in a day and a half.  Before willingly accepting the Ural's limitations, and somewhat less willingly, the growing limitations of Multiple Sclerosis, I likely would have made it home from here in a single 650ish-mile day.  But that wasn't going to happen.  And I was alright with that.

Everything starts to look better when there's a hot plate of food in front of you!  The beef was a little tough, but the bun was perfect - and the fries were amazing.  When I settled my bill, I gave the waiter a nice tip and an apology that he had to work on the holiday.  "I like working on Canada Day," he confided.  "I always have."  Well, it wasn't too crowded.  There's that.

Back in my room, I gave Kim a call on the bedside phone.  Those have all but disappeared in the States but are still common in the north - where cell service is not.  It was a largely positive conversation, despite my disappointing news.  It would be good to be home.  It always is.

Three Wheels North: Crossing the 49th

 

After breaking camp in White Sulphur Springs and puttering off around 7:00, I crossed the Continental Divide at MacDonald Pass, west of Helena, MT.  As you can see, the day could not have been any clearer!

Ural had been struggling more than usual to keep its engine temps down, however - especially when climbing.  From my first stretch of open road the day before, I'd noticed it was running about 10 degrees hotter than on previous cross-country trips.  The only thing I could think of that had changed was the valve adjustment I had performed recently.  All but one had been out of spec, and I'd remedied that.  But the engine light had not come on, so I presumed all was still well.  Maybe it was just that, on average, I'd been gaining elevation from the Great Plains to this point.  Maybe now the trend would reverse.

Sticking to secondary roads, I made my way towards Kalispell, while aiming to largely bypass the heavily populated Flathead Valley.  To accomplish that, I meandered through the mountains to the east.  I'd passed a no-name gas station in Elliston, thinking there'd be a name-brand one at the junction in Avon.  There was not.  The next likely spot was the junction of 141 and 200.  It was on the route to Missoula, so my chances would be better there.

Strike Two.  By the time I got to Ovando, I was a little concerned.  I'd assumed I wouldn't have trouble getting fuel until Canada, so both 2.5 and 1.5-gallon jerrycans were still empty.  Talk about a rooky mistake.  I certainly should have known better!  

I pulled up in front of this restaurant that appeared to be the only business in "town".  It didn't look like they had gas, but they'd probably know where the nearest station was.  It was closed.

But there was some activity out in the parking lot.  A couple was circling their RV, preparing to leave, it seemed.  I walked over and called out to the older gentleman.  While not locals, they were somewhat familiar with the area.  Between the two of them, they decided there was most certainly gas at the next junction to the west - about a dozen miles away.  That would work.  I probably had enough for twice that.

Ovando had been Strike Three, but I was not quite out.  I had something I didn't have before - hope!

The kindly couple was correct.  I filled up at the south end of Highway 83.  And this time, I also filled the steel jerrycan strapped to the sidecar!

But only a few miles later I was stopped again - road construction.  An overhead light was controlling one-way traffic on a temporarily unpaved section of the normally paved road.  

Soon, a group of three bikers pulled up behind me.  They'd come from one of the Carolinas (I don't remember which one) and were headed to Glacier National Park.  They must have been tiring of their journey, because they asked if the famous Going-to-the-Sun Road would be worth the trip.  Having been there multiple times, I assured them it was!

I didn't really need a break, but it was a pleasant spot to be delayed.  When it became clear that it might be a while, I got off the bike and stood in the shade.  I think that's Salmon Lake, but it might be Seeley.  They're not far apart.  When a long line of southbound traffic finally began rolling by, all four of us remounted in anticipation of the green light.

The rest of the road was engagingly winding and tree-lined.  Traffic got bad as I neared the park entrance, but once I turned west again and passed through Whitefish, tranquility returned.  

This is Eureka, MT.  I'd never been there before but had heard it was a nice little town.  Six miles from the border, I'd planned on pausing here to call my wife - before my phone quit working in Canada.  After that, I'd be relying on a satellite texting device and motel/campground phones to keep in touch.

The city park would be the perfect place.  It was late afternoon, and while temps were significantly higher than I like, cooling shade was now abundant and expansive.  Besides checking in with Kim, I also wanted to give the sun more time to descend, in case there was a long line with no tree cover at the border.

I needn't have worried.  There was only one vehicle ahead of me at the window when I arrived at the 49th Parallel.  After a relay of documents and a brief chat with the official, I was through - and free to travel about the country!  It was probably the quickest crossing of any international border I've ever experienced.

Immediately, the road got nicer and the speed limit dropped - two welcome changes for Ural and me.  At Elko, British Columbia, I turned northwest onto Highway 3/93.  Less than an hour later, I pulled into the Fort Steele Resort.  There really was no town, just an historic tourist attraction of some sort (which was closed) and this RV park.  I guess the gas station and store (out front) and the swimming pool (behind) earned the place its "resort" status.  I had thought there would be a hotel - was counting on it, actually.  I asked about cabins and there was one.  But it was taken.  The woman behind the counter thought there might be a hotel in Wasa, twenty minutes farther.  But she wasn't sure.  There wasn't even a restaurant.  Guess I hadn't read their website all that carefully before I left South Dakota.  Or maybe the restaurant was in the closed area across the highway.  

I decided to pay for a tent site in the trees anyway - and call it a day.  I'd come 410 miles, much closer to my goal of no more than 400, and didn't want to ruin it.  I certainly didn't want to go on to Wasa, only to have to come back.  After gassing up, I motored back behind the store, found my site, and set up the tent.  Walking back, I claimed this picnic table with my jacket, and went in to get whatever supper I could find.

That was when the evening turned around a bit.  There was no hot food, but some amazing-looking locally prepared sandwiches filled one of the coolers!  I chose turkey and cheese, with lots of fresh veggies sticking out from a large fluffy bun.  It was such a responsible adult healthy choice.  I was pretty proud of myself - and it was quite tasty to boot!  I then realized one other big positive.  The night before, in Montana, had featured large and rather numerous mosquitoes.  But there were none here at all!

I sat there at the table for quite a while, finished my dinner, then poked out a few texts on my GPS device.  I figured it might not send under all the tree cover at my camp.  It's certainly not an efficient way of communicating, but it works from anywhere you can see a good chunk of sky.  And it's got an SOS button, should I ever need to contact emergency services.  How cool is that?

Back at my site, the guy I had talked to earlier, who was going to set up next to me, had evidently changed his mind.  Too bad.  I kind of liked him.  In his place (to the left of this photo) were a father and son.  They were fine, but not nearly as interesting.  In fact, I couldn't get them to say much at all.

Just before dark, they began rapidly packing up.  The guy said his boy was feeling sick, and they were heading home.  Was it something I said?  About that time, several families in a group site to the right turned on their music.  And their music was not pleasant.  By 11:00, all was quiet again, however - and I ended up sleeping fairly well.

Three Wheels North

 

Yes, Ural and I have gone north before - to the Dakota that sits atop the one we now call home.  But the goal for this journey was to expand my three-wheeler's range significantly farther in that direction!

To that end, you'll notice not just the standard spare wheel on the sidecar's trunk, but an additional tire strapped to it.  Indeed, there is brand new rubber installed all around as well, but the one on the rear of the bike is for longer wear with street use.  When the pavement ends up in the Yukon, I'd switch to the off-road tire mounted spare.  The same tires, when in the front and sidecar positions, last three times as long, so they aren't an issue.  The extra extra (the fifth in total) is for emergencies.  All clear?  It was the best way I could think of to deal with tires that only last around 3,000 miles - on a 6,200-mile trip!

Also of note is the package wrapped in a blue tarp, mounted under the spare tires.  It's a box containing my battery-powered pump for transferring fuel from the jerrycans to the main tank - for the 260-mile stretch with no gas stations between Dawson City and Eagle Plains.

If it sounds like I've been there before, it's because I have - sort of.  I made my first attempt at riding to the Canadian Arctic village of Tuktoyaktuk (on a different motorcycle) way back in 2018 - five years ago!  I reached the southern border of the Yukon - then turned around and went home.  Long story.

The following year (2019), after making a few critical equipment changes, I returned and made it through 240 miles of gravel to Eagle Plains.  A handful of miles later, I turned around again.  Even longer story.  

2020 was COVID.  2021 was learning to ride the Ural off-road in Idaho.  2022 (last year) was the move from Oregon to South Dakota.  "Tuk", as it's affectionately called, is 320 more gravel road miles past Eagle Plains.  2023 will be my third attempt!

Belle Fourche is only about an hour from home.  It's the last town in South Dakota heading northwest along 212.  Next you cross a small corner of Wyoming, then enter the great state of Montana.  East to west, Montana is enormous.  When your 1940's technology engine limits you to around 60 miles per hour (on the flats), you start to think it might go on forever.

But it didn't - at least not the part I was traversing that day.  After passing through Billings, I turned north on Highway 3, then west again on 12.  White Sulphur Springs, population around a thousand, is about 2/3 of the way across the state.  This is not the campground I'd found on the Internet, but it was quieter-looking, and not right in town.  The old house that doubled as an office was intriguing as well.

The man you see walking away on the far left (in front of the car) was coming toward me when I first parked.  He was nice enough, but was sorry to inform me that this was an RV only establishment.  I hardly ever run into that sort of thing in Canada, but it's quite common here in the Lower 48, for some reason.

Back to Plan A - a hot springs resort that included a motel, RV sites, and tent spots.  Unfortunately, the woman who checked me in said the new parking lot behind the Ural had severely restricted the tenting options.  And a soak in the hot pools inside would cost me $10 more.  We'll see how things go.  

I set up my trusty blue ultra-light home under the shade of a beautiful spreading tree and decided to ride downtown to check out the supper options.  Being the weekend before the 4th, I figured other campers might show up, and I wanted to have first pick at a site. 

Stageline Pizza caught my eye on the first pass - and there was an available parking spot right out front!

They took my order right away, but it was so hot inside that I went back out to wait on a sidewalk bench.  It wasn't exactly cool outside either, but the awning's shade made it tolerable.  I chatted with a few locals as they came and went - and learned the place was really backed up that evening.  It might be a while.

But what else did I have to do?  I texted some family back home and answered questions about the Ural from passersby.  I was glad I'd already set up my tent.

About an hour later, I had my personal pan sausage and bell pepper pizza!  I found a more tranquil place to eat it, a few steps up the street, and dove in.  It was well worth the wait!

I wrapped up the last piece for breakfast and motored back to camp.  My spot was closer to the highway than I'd prefer, but I had good ear plugs for that sort of thing - and it was not a busy route.

I extracted my bed roll (sleeping bag, foam pad, and pillow) from the sidecar and got everything situated inside.  Then I took my toiletries bag into the bath house to prepare for a good night's sleep.

That done, I settled down on a closed food truck patio on the far side of the parking lot.  It appeared to be only a lunch place, so maybe I'd have a chance to try it on my way back through.  As the sun set, I reviewed the day and previewed the next.  I'd planned on this being a longer than average day.  I figured I'd be fresh, and I could handle it.  Beginning tomorrow, I'd stick closer to 400 milers, but Day One had been 470.  Still, it hadn't been that bad.  I could do without the afternoon heat, but I'd made it in less than 12 hours.

The plan for Day Two was to continue across Montana, then turn north and enter British Columbia.  My pre-trip research had turned up another motel/camping resort about an hour north of the border.  There, I'd try to get a room and start an every-other-night camping routine.

Time to hit the sack!