FAQ

Harlowton, MT -- There's no better conversation starter than showing up somewhere on a loaded bicycle, but it almost always starts the same conversation.

Q: Where are you coming from? Where are you going?
A: Coming from Massachusetts, going to Oregon.

Q: All by yourself?
A: Yes, all by myself. And I like it this way. I can do whatever I want.

Q: Why? Are you raising money for charity or something?
A: Wanted to see the country and I don't have a car.

Q: Aren't you scared? There are a lot of bad people out there.
A: Sometimes I get nervous, but everyone's really nice. I keep hearing about these bad people, but I haven't met them yet.

Q: How many miles do you go in a day?
A: It depends on weather, hills, and distances between towns, but I average around 60 miles a day.

Q: I couldn't ride a bike to the other side of town. Isn't it hard?
A: Never so hard that it isn't worth it.

New Englander out West: One More Thing

Billings, MT -- Excited to be taking a Sunday off from riding in the big (90,000 people) city of Billings, I went downtown to buy myself a Sunday New York Times. I was told with a smile that it would be in on Thursday and that they only ordered a few copies because not many people wanted the news four days late. There just wasn't any good way to get the paper to Billings.

Portland is further away from Boston than Billings is, but I'm learning that a place's geographical location isn't always as important as the sort of networks that it's in. In the farm country of central Illinois I was only a couple hundred miles from Chicago, but I couldn't find the Chicago Tribune anywhere.

I'll be able to get the Times in Portland. I think the East Coast will end up being closer to the West Coast than to a lot of places in between.

Out West and Back East

Billings, MT -- So much has happened that this is going to be a two for one special. Lucky you. The next entry's below.

Northeasterner goes West

About the time I got to South Dakota, I realized that this is not the country I grew up in. There are no trees. Sometimes I see a town on the horizon and it takes me two hours to ride there. I see antelope by the road that I can identify only because I saw them in the computer game "Oregon Trail."

I find myself talking more and more about Massachusetts to people out here. In Massachusetts, you're always in a town and the interstates are four lanes in each direction, not four lanes total. In Massachusetts, we don't need to worry much about the whole landscape catching on fire or being snowed into our houses six miles from the road. In Massachusetts, you don't need to drive sixty miles to the grocery store, and the economy doesn't depend on the weather.

The distances out here make me nervous. Forty miles isn't unusually far between towns, and it's noteworthy if I see one or two houses in the course of the ride. There might be signs or gates for ranches, but those are usually miles off of the paved road so I never see them. I find myself a lot more concerned out here with getting to the next point on my map, whether it's a town or an intersection. Part of that is practical -- if I can't count on being able to fill up a water bottle for forty miles, I need to carry about ten pounds of water. Part of it, though, is just that I'm not used to geography like this. I can feel myself getting slightly anxious when I look around and the road I'm on and the fence I'm next to are the only signs I see of people.

I thought about this a lot when I visited the Badlands back in South Dakota. The land there is bizarre and intimidating by any standards, and especially by mine. There are dry grasslands and then these peaks and rocky formations made of crumbly, dry soil and stone. Apparently the Badlands were formed by rivers, which cut all of these dramatic outcrops out of the sea bed. You can tell that they came from water -- there are canyons and little channels cut into the rocks, but the Badlands get less than 16 inches of rain a year. While I was there, it rained for five minutes and a ranger told me that was probably going to be it for precipitation this month. Walking around after the rain, I could barely tell it had happened. The ground was dry and cracked again.

When I first arrived I thought he place must be aching for moisture, but it took me until the day I left to realize that it wasn't at all. It's those five minute rains that are not-so-slowly eroding the Badlands. They'll be gone entirely in 500,000 years. There are birds, toads, insects, and plants. It's actually doing fine without the water I've come to expect and associate with a healthy earth.

To put it simply, this is not New England. My ideas about land and landscapes no longer apply. Out here, I'm usually so awestruck by the hugeness of the places I see that I don't actually see much of what's in them. I spent a wonderful day with a guy that I met in Alzada, MT, and he drove me around the Black Hills and Northeastern Wyoming showing me the sights. He pointed things out to me at great distances -- cows, deer, antelope -- that I usually couldn't see at all. At first I thought it was my eyesight but I think it's actually the way my eyes are trained. How can I see a deer when I'm trying to process a view that includes a massive sky and a horizon that could be twenty miles away? As we drove, I could feel myself getting more and more used to it, but he still said things sometimes that reminded me I was in a very different place. If someone responds to a 911 call in an hour, that's really pretty fast. He went to high school 35 miles from home.

I'll be here for a while -- it's big out here -- but I still may not have adjusted to the prairie by the time I hit the mountains. It's different. Life is different. I'm glad to be getting to see it. Right now I'm in Billings, staying with a RAGBRAI connection, and I'm going to see my first rodeo tonight. Then on towards the Rockies. Onwards and upwards, in the most literal sense.

White Girl in Indian Country


Billings, MT -- I picked up a pretty good book, Neither Wolf nor Dog at a Lakota museum's gift shop in South Dakota. It's kind of a novel, kind of an oral history project, and quite readable -- I'd recommend it. It's got me thinking about passing through these reservations. So here's what I've been thinking going through Indian Country, right, wrong, ignorant, or whatever it is.

Every time I come near an Reservation, white people start warning me about it. They tell me not to spend the night there, to be careful riding through. Have I thought about taking another road that goes around? I'll probably be fine, they say, but don't ride through on a weekend and just don't spend the night. Be careful. There's a lot of unemployment in those parts, they tell me, and that means people have more time to get into trouble.

I don't know if they have any reason to say those things. I'm skeptical, because isn't that what white people say about ethnic neighborhoods all over the country? But I'm wary, because I'm not from here and the all I know about the places I go is what people tell me. Maybe traveling by myself on a bicycle isn't the best time to try to test the line between caution and prejudice, I tell myself.

So I stopped just short of the Northern Cheyenne Reservation on Wednesday, rather than ride another 20 miles to the reservation town of Lame Deer, and spent the night in Ashland, MT. Even there, people made me nervous. I was told not to camp in the city park or almost anywhere else in town because of safety concerns -- people get drunk and are out at night around here, I was told. I ended up camping on a nice woman's lawn before setting off to ride across the Northern Cheyenne and Crow reservations on Thursday.

The road towards Lame Deer went up an awfully big ridge almost as soon as I started. It took me about an hour to go the five miles up it, and I was sweating, grumpy, and trying to catch my breath at the peak when a car pulled over to talk to me. There were three men in it, and the driver was very friendly. He introduced himself, said he was from Lame Deer, and I chatted with the three of them about my trip. He had relatives in Massachusetts, and he and his younger passengers started telling me about the road ahead. The worst of the climb was over, they said, and I was glad to hear it. I had a big downhill into Lame Deer to look forward to, and then rolling hills most of the rest of the way.

The driver also told me that if I took the next gravel road on my right, I'd take a loop past some ice wells, where the water stayed frozen all year. A little further down the road was Crazy Head Springs, where there was a Cheyenne Language Immersion program and a great spring. He told me that Cheyenne water was good water, and that if I took some and took it with me it would get me where I was going. The other two men in the car laughed at that, and he said that they didn't believe it, but that I should get some water anyway. He told me his name again and said that I should tell people in Lame Deer I knew him. They'd treat me well, he said.

It was just what I needed after that climb -- a talk with some locals and the prospect of some neat sights off the beaten path. It lifted my spirits. As I turned down the gravel road, something started in my head. Somewhere in the unwritten handbook for solo female travelers there is probably a line that specifically advises against going down bumpy gravel roads that no one knows you're taking (except three strange men you've just met) in an area that people have told you is unsafe. I kept riding, though. I didn't want to pre-judge the reservation, and I've found that tips from locals usually lead me to cool places to explore.

I came to some cows and saw two people on horseback riding on a hill with the rest of the herd. They must have seen me, but didn't acknowledge the probably unusual sight of a white girl on a loaded bicycle coming down their road. They were too far away to call out to, but I found myself wanting to yell my friend in the car's name to them, and tell them that I had been invited. Instead, I turned around and rode back to the road. Perhaps despite the invitation, this was not my country to explore. There are plenty of other roads out there, already stolen, for me to ride down without invading a cattle pasture on Native land.

Or was I just scared? Maybe. By the time I got to the turn off for Crazy Head Springs I had convinced myself that I was just scared of those horsemen's anger or disapproval. Crazy Head had a sign on the highway, and there was that school I could look for. I could explain myself to someone, drop the driver's name, get some water, and then continue my ride. No reason to be scared. No reason to believe that the reservation was any more threatening than anywhere else. No reason to treat the place or the people with anything other than my usual friendly and open approach.

I took the turn down a dusty dirt road and got to the sign for the school, which was directly after a sign informing visitors that non-members of the tribe needed a permit from an office in Lame Deer. I was thinking about whether it was more oblivious to go get a permit or to wander around without one when I realized that the most oblivious thing I could think of doing would be to show up asking, in English, for special water at a Native language immersion school. I turned around again.

I think there is a reason to treat the reservations differently, but it doesn't have to be fear. My usual approach to people -- friendly, open -- assumes that I'm entitled to be there talking to them, and though this whole country is stolen land I'm not entitled to explore, I'm especially not entitled to explore these reservations.

The ride into Lame Deer was all down hill, like they said. I bought a liter of Aquafina at the grocery store, chatted with and old man outside, and stayed on the highway until I was out of the Northern Cheyenne and the adjacent Crow reservation, fifty miles later.

White Girl in Indian Country

Billings, MT -- Every time I come near an Indian Reservation, white people start warning me about it. They tell me to be careful riding through and ask if I’ve thought about taking a different road. I'll probably be fine, they say, but don't ride through on a weekend and don't spend the night. Be careful. There's a lot of unemployment in those parts, they tell me, and that means people have more time to get into trouble.

I don't know if they have any reason to say those things. I'm skeptical, because isn't it what white people say about ethnic neighborhoods all over the country? But I'm wary, because I'm not from here and all I know about the places I go is what people tell me. Maybe traveling by myself on a bicycle isn't the best time to test the line between caution and prejudice, I tell myself.

I stopped just short of the Northern Cheyenne Reservation on Wednesday, rather than ride another 20 miles to the reservation town of Lame Deer, and spent the night in Ashland, MT. Even there, people made me nervous. I was told not to camp in the city park or almost anywhere else in town because of safety concerns -- people get drunk and wander around at night around here, the clerk at the post office said. I ended up camping on a nice woman's lawn before setting off to ride across the Northern Cheyenne and Crow reservations on Thursday.

The road towards Lame Deer went over an awfully big ridge right away. It took me about an hour to go the five steep miles up it, and I was sweating, grumpy, and trying to catch my breath at the peak when a car pulled over to talk to me. There were three men in it, and the driver was very friendly. He introduced himself, said he was from Lame Deer, and I chatted with the three of them about my trip. He he and his younger passengers started telling me about the road ahead. The worst of the climb was over, they said, and I was glad to hear it. I had a big downhill into Lame Deer to look forward to, and then rolling hills most of the rest of the way through the Cheyenne Reservation.

The driver also told me that if I took the next gravel road on my right, it would loop past some ice wells, where the water stayed frozen all year. A little further down the road was Crazy Head Springs, where there was a Cheyenne Language Immersion
program and a spring. He told me that Cheyenne water was good water, and that if I took some with me it would get me where I was going. The other two men in the car laughed at that, and he said that they didn't believe it, but that I should get some water anyway. He told me his name again and said that I should tell people in Lame Deer I knew him. They'd treat me well, he said.

It was just what I needed after that climb -- a talk with some locals and the prospect of some neat sights off the beaten path. It lifted my spirits. As I turned down the gravel road, though, I thought about what I was doing. Somewhere in the unwritten handbook for solo female travelers there is probably a line that specifically advises against going down bumpy gravel roads in reputedly unsafe areas that no one knows you're taking except for three strange men you've just met. I kept riding, though. I didn't want to pre-judge the reservation, and tips from locals have led me to some fun sights in the past.

I came to some cows in the road and saw two people on horseback riding on a hill with the rest of the herd. They must have seen me, but didn't acknowledge the probably unusual sight of a white girl on a loaded bicycle riding towards their herd. They were too far away to call out to, but I found myself wanting to yell the driver’s name to them, and tell them that I had been invited. Instead, I turned around and rode back to the highway. Perhaps despite the invitation, this was not my country to explore. There are plenty of other roads out there, already stolen, for me to ride down without invading a cattle pasture on Native land.

Or was I just scared? Maybe. By the time I got to the turn-off for Crazy Head Springs I had convinced myself that I was just afraid of those horsemen's anger or disapproval. Crazy Head had a sign on the highway, and there was that school I could look for. I could explain myself to someone, drop the driver's name, get some water, and then continue my ride. No reason to be scared. No reason to believe that the reservation was more threatening than anywhere else. No reason to treat the place or the people with anything other than my usual friendly and open approach.

I took the turn down a dusty dirt road and rode to the sign for the school, which was directly after a sign informing visitors that non-members of the tribe needed a permit from an office in Lame Deer to use the area. I was thinking about whether it was more oblivious to go get a permit or to wander around without one when I realized that the most oblivious thing I could possibly do would be to show up asking, in English, for special water at a Native language immersion school. I turned around again.

I think there is a reason to treat the reservations differently, but it doesn't have to be fear. My usual approach to people assumes that I'm entitled to be there talking to them, and though this whole country is stolen land I'm not entitled to explore, I'm especially not entitled to explore these reservations.

The ride into Lame Deer was all down hill, like the men in the car had told me. I bought a liter of Aquafina at the grocery store, chatted with an old man outside, and stayed on the highway until I was out of the Northern Cheyenne and the adjacent Crow Reservation, fifty miles later.

Pride in South Dakota

Belle Fourche, SD -- This will be rushed, I'm just stopped at a public library on my way to Alzeda, MT for the night. I may update with pictures when I have more time, but here's a quick summary of the last few days.

I rode out of Pierre without incident and spent the next night in the little town of Midland, which is unlike other towns in the area because they have hot water underground at 3600 feet. Most towns in the area don't have drinkable water, apparently. People drink bottled water or truck it in. Anyways, in Midland I talked with a man who digs water mains and I saw, mixed in with postings of cars for sale and town meetings, a photocopied flier for the Rapid City Pride and Diversity festival that coming Saturday. I moved on to the Badlands the next day, and spent a day there being awestruck. More on that later, I think.

I got into Rapid City on Saturday after leaving the Badlands and found my way over to the Pride Festival. Some political candidates spoke, there were information booths, and they gave me a T-shirt advocating the defeat of the anti-same-sex-magrriage amendment that's up for vote this fall. It was a nice little affair in a small park, and some local singers performed. Apparently it's Rapid City's second Pride -- the first was in 2003. I was adopted by some folks from Vermillion and the University of South Dakota and stayed with them at the house they were at for the night. I also went with them to the party that happened that evening at a pub in town. Okay, I'll be honest: compared to New York or Boston Pride, it was not particularly overwhelming. At the peak of the evening, there must have been 25 people on the dance floor, and maybe twice that back at the bar area. I liked it, though. There was one song they played part way through the evening with the chorus, "If you're going through hell, keep on moving...you might get out before the devil even knows you're there". It's a current hit on the country charts and was the only country song that was played all night, but people started dancing with arms hooked and it seemed happy and hopeful. There weren't many people there, but there were enough, and at least to an outsider they seemed to be having a good time. I don't know how to describe it, but it had some sort of communal feeling that I never noticed in the crowds of Boston or New York City Pride.

There are motorcycles everywhere out here. This is Sturgis Bike Week and somewhere in the neighborhood of a million people are going to be riding their Harleys, Hondas and choppers around the Black Hills. It seems like a million people already are. I've been seeing people on their way to Sturgis since entering South Dakota, and riding around here is practically deafening. (Before you go worrying about me on my own in the midst of all these bad bikers, let me say that some very nice riders hauling their bikes out to Sturgis behind their pickup gave me a ride and saved me from having to bicycle on Interstate 90 when it was the only road out of town. They were really friendly.) People come from all over the country and the world to be here, go to races, buy T-shirts, ride the Hills, and be surrounded by other rebellious folks in leather with their counter-culture hair blowing in the wind and engines roaring who love riding their motorcycles. It's absolutely huge, now, of course, but it started small. I think with all the tough-guy imagery I'm supposed to be intimidated by the riders, but I keep thinking (despite the racket) that it's kind of sweet. Especially at the beginning, I think, it must have been a lot like Rapid City Pride.

South Dakota Heat

Pierre, SD -- So far, South Dakota has been dry and hot. On Saturday, Jim drove me up here and on Sunday I decided to spend the day in a motel as temperatures hit a hundred and twelve. Yesterday, when the forecast predicted a comparatively low peak of a hundred, I thought it might be a good day to make the eighty-mile ride to Pierre.

I left at five in the morning to get as many miles in as possible while it was cool out, but even before the sun rose it was in the high seventies. The early morning ride was pretty, though. I would do it again just to be out with the sunrise. I rode through the Crown Creek Indian Reservation and stopped at a place on my map called Mac's Corner.

I expected a town, but in fact it was just a gas station called "Mac's Corner." The cashier said she didn't know how it had gotten on the map, but that it had always been there. After that, there was nothing until Pierre. I know there are a lot of Northeasterners reading this and there was a time when I would barely have believed that, either. I rode for at least a day before I could really say that I had gotten out of the Boston suburbs -- how could there actually be nothing for almost 50 miles outside of a state capitol? It still doesn't quite make sense to me, but I can tell you that there's nothing between Mac's Corner and Pierre.



Well, there were at least a few houses in the first twenty miles, a few dirt roads promising other towns in 15 to 20 miles, and cars passed every five minutes or so. Normally a car-free road would sound good to me, but I was glad for what traffic there was. Not only was it hot, but there was no shade at all. While the sun was still rising in the sky, bales of hay by the side of the road made a shadow of a few square feet, but there were only very occasional trees, and they were behind barbed-wire fences providing shade to a few huddled cows.

Central South Dakota is having a terrible draught, I learned. They're far below the rainfall they should have at this time of year, and you can tell it by looking around. Farmers are having to truck their cattle to pastures that actually have grass or if they can't do that, just to sell the cows because there's nothing to feed them. The corn crop is shot -- there's no amount of rain that could save it now. Aside from two or three fields I saw watering their crops, the corn was dried out and light brown, just like the rest of the landscape. The most dramatic indicator of the drought that I saw was a farmer who had taken to his corn field with a hay baler and just started to bale the corn stalks, ears and all. It was so dried out that it was worth no more than hay.



I didn't take a picture of that, though, because I saw it from the window of a pick-up truck. About 11:30 I felt like all the water I was drinking wasn't doing enough to combat the heat, so I stuck out a thumb and got picked up by the rural route mailman. I helped him deliver mail for a couple hours, tried to drink a lot of water and eat something, but I was a bit too woozy to fully enjoy the experience. When I got to Pierre and the folks' house that I was staying at, I started vomiting and ended up in the ER being rehydrated. Oops. I was carrying tons of water and thought I was drinking plenty (more than a liter an hour), but I think I just underestimated the combination of the heat and having nowhere to rest in the shade. Hello, South Dakota. I've learned my lesson, though. I'll be planning a short day or a rest day next time it looks like it's going to be that hot.

Just a little while after the postman picked me up, a cooler front moved in that should keep things in the 80's and 90's for the rest of the week. I'm resting today (doctor's orders) but this would actually have been a perfect day to ride -- it's about seventy-five and overcast. Tomorrow, though. Onwards and westward.