Gig Harbor Washington to Bar Harbor Maine 2001

We did spend a layover day in rainy, eastwindy, downtown Wolf Point. It was a nice rest, but doesn't deserve it's own page. I visited every single store, except clothes stores, and didn't find a book or tape, new or used, that I even considered. Still, it gave me something to do. The motel was nice, except that we had smoking rooms. Hell, it's a smoking town. Gridley and I went to the Wolf Point Cafe for lunch and local color. I thought the next table was on fire. I choked on the smoke but inhaled the chili burger. I love fueling up for bike rides.

Gridley and I visited the hardware stores and took care of a little maintenance. I found a screw for Garcia's BOB fender so I don't have to listen to it rattle anymore. We also went to the theater and saw David Duchovny put the final nail in his career's coffin in Evolution. It was supposed to be laughably bad, but it was really bad. The popcorn was great.

We were pretty sick of restaurants, especially when they're out of everything on the menu, so we went to the grocery store and made spinach salad with tuna and triscuits. Nothing was fried.

The downtown flags were blowing lightly from the west when I woke up. Clouds covered the sky and almost hung to the ground. It was a little dismal but kept it cool. As soon as we stepped outside with our arms full of BOBs and bikes, the mosquitos welcomed us with open probosces (proboscises?). It was like walking into the bloodmobile without the embarrassing questions. We got out of town as fast as we could.

Best beef jerky.

We covered the first 22 miles to Poplar pretty quickly and were looking forward to getting off US 2 and onto another reservation road. The Indians hanging around the convenience store waxed poetic about a later detour, but warned us to skip the first one. Too many curves and drunks. Another Indian walked to the street from his fireworks stand to deliver the same message and another in another convenience store, with the world's best beef jerky, repeated it. We began to wonder if we'd come across a really friendly tribe or if we were being invited to the sacrifice of the biking white guys.

Local help with the maps.

They were friendly. We skipped the first road and the second was a great ride and bypasssed a lot of hills on US 2. We had plenty of hills later. We also had a lot of humidity. The temperature never got over about 80, but the humidity was 97%. I felt like I was being cooked in my own plentiful juices. (Or maybe broasting. I couldn't resist getting some aromatic fried chicken from the convenience store in Brockton for our picnic under the trees at the school across the street. They called it broasted chicken. What the hell is broasted?) I guess I'm a heat weenie. Gridley was ecstatic that the mosquitos had all exploded from their own steam. Garcia was evening out his tan. Kathryn was riding great, ahead of me all day. I was this puddle of sweat, dribbling along behind.

Peter.

We pulled into a rest stop to dispose of the gatorade remnants we hadn't sweated out. A man with a BOB COZ (like a cooler on wheels) was there and I started jabbering about the trailer. He said, "No English, German." Whoa. We eventually determined that he, Peter, had ridden for the last 49 days, against the wind, from DC and was headed for Seattle. He was very impressed by our 165 mile day, when I convinced him I didn't mean kilometers. He asked several times about campgrounds. I answered each time with, "Motel! Mosquitos!" and a little pantomime. Even if he knew what I meant, I'm sure he couldn't imagine the force of the little bastards.

So long, Montana.

We've been in Montana for 12 days and were pretty damn sick of it. I like Montana, but it just wouldn't end. We ran into the Virgin Island tandem couple again, Kathy and Eddy, at the Welcome To Nort Dakoda sign. We took each other's pictures, then they apologized about being slow and disappeared into the hills, never to be seen again.

Kathy & Eddie.

Even my drippy spirits were lifted by the new state and the fantastic roads with shoulders as wide as lanes with no glass, gravel or rumble strips. Yea, Nort Dakoda! Then we discovered positive proof of the expanding universe as Williston became farther and farther from Wolf Point. First it was 90 miles. Then 93, 95 and 97. Finally we got to the edge of Williston. We had been looking forward to camping out, sleeping on our own beds, cooking in our own kitchens. Right before the turn to the only campground in town, I saw a billboard for a Super 8 motel with an indoor pool. Pool. Indoor. I lobbied hard for motel and called both places for rates. It was $13 per head at the campground vs. $21.50 at the motel. But it has a pool, and, we later found out, breakfast and a free drink each at the bar. Too bad the kids are underage, we had to drink for them.

We soaked in the pool, then discovered we'd crossed another time zone and raced out for dinner. Gridley and I both settled on the baked potato with a steak on the side. I nearly ordered another one, hold the steak, but we settled for some TCBY across the street instead.

We've got one more day on the Adventure Cycling route before we start zigzagging our way toward Garcia's relatives in Barney, ND. We're trying to make it by July 4th. I'm a little nervous about leaving the maps that tell us every place to eat, sleep, or piss in private. At least we have a choice of roads now. We're rapidly approaching civilization.