It doesn't seem like much, but it adds up

After a good rest in Tioga, I resumed my trek east following the rolling hills leading east out of Williston.  It's an arid landscape with views towards Lake Sakakawea.  It was a pleasant day, with few winds and moderate temperatures, and lots of rolling hills.  I was glad to be back on the bike, and it seemed rather enjoyable to go up for a while, and then coast for a while.

Twenty miles out, I stopped at the very same place where my neighbor, Lester, and I had dinner the night before: Lund's Landing Marina.  Unfortunately, the marina had been left high and dry a few years ago by the receding lake, but the food is as big an attraction.  The night before I had ordered the regional specialty, walleye, a fish I had never heard of previously.  What brought me back to the restaurant, though, was the Juneberry pie.  I hadn't heard of Juneberries before either, but it is well worth the twenty mile ride from Williston to see what Annalane can do with them either alone or in combination with rhubarb or strawberries.

After Lund's Landing, there was no place to get food and water until New Town, my destination for the day.  I rolled into town late, dead tired.  When I finally checked the GPS for daily statistics, I saw why I was so tired.  It may have been only 30 feet at a time, but the constant up and down of the rolling hills added up to almost 3,000 feet of climbing.  No wonder I was tired and hungry.  The only place open for dinner in New Town was a low-end version of a burger joint, but when you're hungry, a hamburger and two milkshakes tastes pretty darn good.

Winds, damnable winds

On Wednesday, July 12th, I spent most of the day muttering a new mantra: I hate North Dakota, I hate North Dakota, I hate North Dakota.  I had no idea how miserable winds can make your life.  The answer is: very miserable.

It took four hours of maximum effort to forge a minimal 24 miles ahead.  I was cycling straight into winds that were blowing at 25-30 mph out of the south.  I set a new standard for a "personal worst": 5.8 mph on a 2% downhill grade, 3.8 mph on a 2% uphill grade.  Hell, you can walk 3 mph!  I only used two gears for four hours: my lowest and next-to-lowest.  I am certain that I expended more effort fighting the North Dakota winds than climbing Logan Pass.  And with headwinds, there is never a downhill.  You can double-click the image to the right to get an idea of the force of the winds.

After a few hours of agonizing struggle, I finally turned east towards Minnewaukan on Devil's Lake, my destination for the night.  I had high hopes that the misery would be over, but it was no more than slightly diminished.  I was now able to go 9-10 mph instead of 6 mph.  When the winds blow that hard from the side, you have to steer into them slightly to avoid being pushed over in the opposite direction.  When there is an unexpected strong gust, you find yourself in the middle of the road.  When there is an unexpected lull, you can easily find yourself in the gravel to the side of the road.  Controlling the bike is a struggle.

At the little grocery store in Hope, ND, the owner told me of one cyclist who spent two days fighting the winds.  When he arrived in Hope, he only had one question: where is the nearest airport?  I've talked to other people who have also told me that more cross-country cyclists are defeated by the North Dakota winds than by any of the mountain passes to the west.  If you can make it through North Dakota, you've got it made.

When I got up the following morning, the forecast was again for winds out of the SSE, exactly the direction I was traveling.  Nothing can be worse than yesterday, I told myself.  The winds started out to be no more than a gentle breeze, but picked up force as the day progressed.  But as the winds gained strength, they also switched direction becoming tailwinds.  Misery turned to ecstasy!  In the afternoon, on completely flat terrain, I literally "sailed" along at 22-24 mph with hardly any effort at all.  Good thing I didn't have two days fighting the wind.  Maybe I would have been looking for an airport too.

North Dakota from a bicycle seat

As much as I love to travel by bicycle, I'm not at all sure that North Dakota wouldn't be better seen from the passenger seat of a comfortable, air-conditioned automobile.  There are mosquitoes, hail and thunderstorms, blistering heat, and lots of wheat.  Wheat as far as you can see, and if it's not wheat, corn or hay.  It's beautiful in short doses, but boring when it's the only thing to look at for ten days.

The climate is very harsh.  There are only 130 growing days each year, roughly May, June, July, and August.  There are no trees that grow naturally except along rivers or around lakes.  That explains why the winds can blow so fiercely across the plains: there is nothing to stop them.

It's also difficult terrain for a cyclist.  It is so sparsely populated that there is no place to stop during the day.  You might only have two choices for your cycling day --- 70 miles or 100 miles.  On a hot day, I always like to stop to rest or to take a sip of water in the shade, but with no trees or bushes, there is no shade.  There are few buildings or fences, so there is no place to lean your bike.  About all you can do is stand over your bike, rest for a couple of minutes, and continue onward.

North Dakota has a population of around 650,000 --- less than the city of San Francisco.  It is the only state in the union that is losing population.  Many of the little towns along the route have only a bar as their one going concern.  All the other businesses have shut down, even the grocery store.

I read once that friendliness may be a function that is inversely proportional to the number of people you encounter.  There is some truth to that.  Pedestrians on the sidewalks of downtown Manhattan rarely greet one another, and they certainly don't wave at one another as they drive down the street. But two hikers on a wilderness trail rarely fail to greet one another as they pass.  The theory seems to apply to North Dakota as well.  People wave to completely strangers from their cars and love to talk to anyone they meet.  They are invariably friendly, hospitable, and trusting.  Californians have life much easier than North Dakotans.  It would be wonderful if they would adopt some of the traits exhibited by the residents of a much less hospital environment.

Thursday night I stayed in Pekin, ND.  The only paved streets were the two blocks of downtown.  All the other streets were gravel.  There was a nice city park and a beautiful Lutheran church.  Surprisingly, there was a 10-room motel on the edge of town, but it was filled up due to a class reunion in a neighboring town.  I set up camp next to the motel because they offered me the use of a shower and a bathroom for a $5 fee.  The only place I could get something to eat was the bar.  Dinner consisted of a frozen pizza cooked in the microwave, a bag of corn chips, and two beers.

There are some nice old homes in Pekin.  I talked to a retired farmer who had been fixing up a large two-storey clapboard home on a big lot with trees.  Over time it came out that I was from California (something you don't want to admit to right away), so the guy mentioned that two of his neighbors had moved from California to retire here.  A bit incredulous, I asked if it wasn't awfully cold in the winter, especially for Californians.  "No", he replied, "the winters have been unbelievably mild in recent years.  In the last three years, we haven't seen temperatures lower than minus 20."  I'm sure the Californians will be sporting their Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts if it's only minus 20.

I thought these photos reflected what North Dakota was about.