A difficult day

It's 12:50 am and I'm sitting in front of a Cenex station just outside of New Salem. I finally got Bud calmed down and resting comfortably on his blankets. Poor water-logged guy! It's been a rough day for both of us. Where to start?

Yesterday, if you'd asked me to try to put together the most difficult travel day imaginable, I think the events of this one would still have it beat. Not that I'm complaining. In part, it's the unknown, the variability of each day and its trials that make doing this sort of thing worthwhile. As far as that goes, you could say that this has been the most worthwhile day yet.

So let's see...I guess there've been five components to today's challenge which put it up there with the epics of Gilgamesh. Alright, so I might be stretching it a bit. You be the judge.

Firstly, for every sojourner distance is key. When to start? Where to break and how often? What pace to keep? All of these revolve around distance. Now, I feel pretty comfortable with 30 miles, but add a sustained head wind of 40-60 mph all day and the distance dynamics change substantially. Today's wind was utterly relentless.

Next, there's the temperature; it either makes walking a joy or a chore. 90 degrees isn't terribly hot, but when combined with the aforementioned wind, it sure can dry you out quickly. 1 gallon, I found, isn't nearly enough water.

After that, there's the terrain to consider. On this crossing, it's become clear to me that for every downhill section, there are at least two uphill ones, and that doesn't bother me too much any more, that is, unless the uphill portions are loose gravel and dirt. I tell you that this cart of mine becomes a curse when its wheels get into that soft stuff.

So, by now you should be able to envision our protagonist battling the elements in the fashion of Lawrence of Arabia over rough terrain with only a few drops of water left to get him to his destination. Oh, and of course the faithful companion bolstering confidence with his insatiably long tongue, and wry smile.

Now when we arrive in Salem we're both so tired, but I'm keen to keep my appointment with Sue, the town's mascot and the world's largest Holstein cow statue. She sits on a hill over the city, looking out to the country beyond. I'd imagined this as the perfect place to set up our tent for the night, and took no little comfort from the fact that she'd been standing there securely for many years.

And that brings me to the reason why I'm now waiting for the dawn at a gas station. It may be well and good for Sue to weather the storms on her hill, but when a thunderstorm rolled through around 23:00 hours, my tent was found comparatively wanting. To be more specific, it collapses under the intense wind and allows Buddy and me to be pelted by hail. With lightning striking all around, I make the call.

'We gotta get out of here Bud!'

So, without another thought, I amass everything into a giant wad, and stuff it precariously into the cart. Another bolt flashes and the hail turns to a downpour. Buddy needs no instructions; he's already on his way down the hill. I'm trying to hold the cart's Velcro cover shut on the one side that reaches while balancing a now wet sleeping pad and steering partially blind. It must have been a comical site. The salt on the wound comes about ten minutes later when standing wet under the cover of the convenience store eves, I watch as the storm blows past to the north.

I probably should have seen it coming when I took this.

So, perhaps it's not as impressive a feat as building, say, the walls of Uruk. However, it's a day that in the analogs of this trip will be hard to top. Knock on wood. Bud's sleeping soundly now, and I'm ready for a cup of coffee. Two and a half more hours until the dawn, and then, we'll find out what the path has in store.

What time is it?

When the coffee shop in Hebron said it was closing time, I thought nothing of it. After all, businesses in small towns make their own hours. However, I've just come to find, she wasn't closing an hour early. I've crossed into Central Standard Time.

Woo hoo! A new first: walking across a time zone.

Two travelers, opposite directions

What an amazing morning to be alive! A crisp breeze wafts over the hills to my left, as the radiance of the sun's beams shines through the clouds on my right. As promised, father Otto promptly arrives at 7 and introduces me to a cyclist named Adam who's heading west along a similar path to what I've taken.

Although the monks take their morning meal in silence, we have some time to talk after. I'm encouraged to hear that his experiences of the kindness and goodwill of people mirror my own. I think we've both realized that 'value' can't be measured by the criteria of urban popular culture, and if you try to gage yourself by it, you could easily become jaded. As it stands, I'm convinced that there's no justifiable reason to be a pessimist if you're daily looking for the good.

Anyway, the father takes us on a tour of the monastery and church, and I learn several new things about the order. We part ways around 9, me heading for Hebron, Adam going to Webo, and the father returning to the parish and brotherhood of which he's been a part for 53 years.

Assumption Abbey

After two 20 mile days, I figure Bud's due for a rest, so today I'm pushing him in the cart. I wait until 11 o'clock to leave Dickinson cause I want to see what the weather's going to do. There had been a tornado in Dunn county the day before and the morning had been quite stormy, but at the first cloud break we push off, and there're perfect conditions all the way into Richardton. Arriving at the Assumption Abbey around 19:00, I have the privilege of meeting father Otto of the Benedictine order. He's keen to talk, but must finish a meeting first. However, he points to a well kept area and says, 'You're welcome to set up over there; I'll return in about 45 minutes.'

This wonderful opportunity has come about thanks to a fellow I'd met at the Walmart in Dickinson and the info he provided. Both Buddy and I are thankful to spend the night on these peaceful grounds. Cheers for the tip, Adam.

After I get the tent set up in a lovely place under some large conifers, the father comes back and invites me to have some dinner, turkey and a spinach salad. Delightful! And the best part is that I'm able to enjoy it as the sun sets through the beautifully grand picture windows in the cafeteria. What a blessing to be here.

Painted canyons and oil fields

After taking a wrong road that dead ends at a gully, we go back into Medora a little defeated and I opt for a consolation coffee. I score a vanilla latte which the owner Barb wants to donate. Cheers for that! Then, encouraged by kindness and caffeine, it's back out for another try. This time, we head the right way and soon find ourselves in a beautiful area. The colors of the canyon and wild extensive spaces are strangely juxtaposed by the newly established oil wells, popping up here and there like mechanical daisies, and I'm a little ambivalent about how I feel. I know this industry provides some much needed jobs, but at the same time, I'm sad that children in the 21st century have more of this to look forward to. I'm no authority on energy, but it seems with all our alleged technological advances and innovations, we could do a lot better than to expand this sordid sector.

The Badlands can be a pretty good place.

Rick, the mayor of Sentinel Butte, had invited us to stop by the gas station for some coffee before leaving town, so somewhere 'round nine we pull in and are greeted by a feisty little granny named Gerdie. I pull up a seat and she offers me a freshly baked carmel roll. We get to talking 'bout the differences between city folks and the people in small towns. Gerdie's been a part of this little community for nearly 75 years and probably wouldn't dream of moving to an urban setting. She has a pretty good way of putting it colloquially: 'You know those people in them big cities don't give a tinker's tootle when it comes to knowin' their neighbors.'

Eventually things start winding down and I'm ready to say goodbye. Rick loads me up with a refill on coffee, and Gerdie sends an extra carmel roll for the road. As the butte gets further and further away, I'm thinking, 'Sure would be nice to settle in a place like that, where community potlucks and game nights are commonplace.'

Along the road into Medora, Bud's bathing in the Billabongs and I'm on guard for snakes. We've made it to the Badlands and the temperature is climbing. Deserted homesteads, pallid ridges of sedimentary silt and sandstone surround . But the ever present horn of the BNSF lets you know that you're not alone.

 Into Medora we go... another frontier town put on the map by an affluent French fellow. Well, the Marquis's legacy remains, though predominately in facades and replicas mirroring architecture of the 'beef boom' period. The town seems to be marketed for weekend adventurists and senior travellers. But it's redemptive feature is it's location, right on the doorstep of the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. So, Buddy and I will enjoy a couple days of R & R here before setting out upon the open road again.

A new State to explore

It's 6:30 and already the sun has warmed the inside of the tent far passed the 35 degrees I'm used to. The night was so warm that I slept clear through without zipping up my sleeping bag.

'Ahhhhhh.' An ostentatious yawn escapes my mouth. It's volume is over exaggerated to let my still resting canine know that I'm ready to get up. He glances at me with indifference and plops his head back down. I again try to engage him:

'Guess we're gonna jump right from winter to summer this year, Bud.'

He still refuses to stir. So I jump up, quickly pack everything into our cart and pull the blanket out from under him. He moans, protesting my move to sequester his cushioning and then takes a few steps forward and again flops down in the grass. Little does he know that I've got a full day of walking planned.

We leave Wibaux behind and make our way south on highway 7 for a few miles. It's busier than I'd expected, but no worries, we're soon off it on some back roads. Here the pace slows substantially. The constant concern over traffic is gone. Perhaps one vehicle passes per hour, but other than that, it's just me, Buddy, and the dusty road.

After a few hours we come to a sign that says 'Golden Valley County' and I figure we must be at the State line. The color of the soil is changing with each mile; it's growing darker and leaving thick tracers on the veins of my legs so that they appear to protrude more than they actually do.

In the town of Beach, I have a bite to eat and try to get my bearings on Google Maps. 'Right,' I say to Bud, 'another eight miles or so and we'll call it a day.

So we go further and arrive in the town of Sentinel Butte (population: about 70). There in the center of town a sign informs passer-byers that General Custer passed by this way with the ill fated 7th battalion in May of 1876 as they proceeded to the infamously doomed battle. I, however, am more interested in finding a place to pitch tent. So, going into the store opposite the sign, I inquire from a group of ladies whether they might know of any place nearby.

We're in luck. Not only do they suggest a great spot next to the town pavilion, but Sue also invites me to share in a community potluck. Apparently, lots of folks had gotten together to clean up the town cemetery and were going to have some supper together when the work had all been done. So, once again I am the recipient of good stuff, coming from good people. First impressions suggest that North Dakota is going to be a pleasure.