8 - I Pretty Much Skipped North Dakota

Too soon.

              After waking to this in Deadwood, North Dakota, I made an executive decision. I wasn’t going north. 

              It’s not like Bruce and I did much in North Dakota in 1978 anyway, except stumble upon a high stakes poker game while looking for a campsite:

              We left for North Dakota in pitch dark on a totally isolated, unerringly straight 2-lane highway. In 100 miles, on the way to Bowman, ND, we passed two towns; one consisted of nothing but a Conoco station.

              We made Bowman at 10:30 PM and followed the signs to a (closed) campground. We went back to town and ask directions in a bar to another campground. They directed us, but we got a little confused and followed a dirt road a couple miles to a lighted building. Thinking it may have been the campground, we pulled in, but there was nothing inside but 6 or 7 men around a table involved in a furious game of poker. There was easily a couple hundred bucks on the table.

              We asked about the campground and one gentleman helped us out while the others looked on as if we were undercover policemen who would bust them at any minute. The man helping us asked, “You want the free campground or the good one?” It turned out that the good one was the one we had found closed earlier, and the free one we had somehow passed down the road. The man warned, “It’s not much.” He was right. A single overhead light illuminated a broken picnic table without benches and a hundred empty beer cans. To get there, we had to pull off the dirt road onto a worse dirt road. The night was pleasant enough, however, and we soon dropped off to sleep.

              Given the weather, the promise of that Bowman campground wasn’t enough enticement to go even further north. Besides, I had a bag of Dot’s Pretzels with me, the pride of Velva, North Dakota, perhaps the finest pretzel sticks in all the land. That was as close as I was getting to the Flickertail State.

              Driving in Montana is America’s version of the Autobahn, but without other cars. It is all “Big Sky” and open road. This is what it looked like for about three straight hours:

              Driving here is pleasant; not like rush hour. I have listened to some podcasts, but after getting my fill of Adnan Syed’s case, I have mainly stayed with my music library on shuffle play. When Bruce and I traveled, it was 95% jazz on the cassette player. Bruce remembers us listening to Miles Davis’ “So What,” eating peanut butter and honey sandwiches, and maybe even nipping at a pint of whiskey. He called it our floating jazz bar.

              I miss having someone to share driving. Here’s one passage from driving in Montana in 1978, that gives you a glimpse into the energy of a couple of 21-year-olds:

              We got gasoline and left North Dakota – the drive through ND and Montana was gorgeous, with rolling hills, buttes, rocky cliffs of slate, sandstone and clay, evergreens, and other trees that turned a fragile golden color. Once again we were blessed with a beautiful day. We left the state highway and got onto 94 which in Montana is easily the prettiest interstate I’ve ever been on, including the drive into Detroit. We stopped at a rest area, ran across a field, jumped a barbed wire fence, crossed a stream, ran through the bushes, up a grassy hill, over another barbed wire fence, and climbed a series of large rocks that overlooked the valley. We got some good pictures and then commenced with serious rock throwing, peeling the slate we were standing on to give us plenty of projectiles for our target throwing. After an hour of such fun we ran back to the car and drove on.

              Here’s a few of those shots from ND and Montana:

Yes, I owned a shirt other than the striped tank top.

              But as they say in Curious George books, suddenly the fun all went away:

              Within the space of five minutes we were stopped for speeding, discovered our water pump ws busted, and it began to rain. Bruce, the driver, clocked at 76 by Trooper Murdoch, paid his exorbitant $5 fine on the spot. (We’ll pass on the court date.) Meantime we noticed a stream of water from the engine block. The trooper diagnosed the problem for us and even directed us to the least expensive good service station, here in Billings Montana, where we now sit, awaiting proprietor Kenny Anderson, who has just returned with the proper part from the store down the corner.

              In 1978, the “energy crisis” was in full hysteria. All speed limits were lowered to 55, and in order to retain federal highway funds, the states had to enforce it. So they went through the motions and slapped us with a petty fine for 21 MPH over the limit.

              Today, Montana’s speed limit on the interstate is 80, and traffic moves smoothly. I made it into Red Lodge just north of Yellowstone, another town with a rich “Old West” history. One difference from then and now is that so many of these towns have become resorts. I had planned to camp here, but with the forecast a low of 33°, I recalled camping near here in 1978:

              We cruised into the Shoshone National Forest and camped at another free site. There were no facilities. There was nothing except majestic pine trees and a million stars on a cold, clear night that forced me to don four tee shirts, a flannel shirt, a sweater and a sweatshirt, and still found me freezing.

              I didn’t bring a coat this time, either. So I found a nice Airbnb in town, with a real bed, and instead of a cowgirl, a portrait of the Sundance Kid.

              Tomorrow: Yellowstone, and Bearmouth Montana, Population 2

Photo credits: car, road - me 2018. Others - Bruce Weil 1978. Sketch - me, 1977.