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.