Day 22: Chokecherries, Badgers, Square Buttes, and Such

Day 22: Friday June 27th, 2014.
Fort Benton, MT to Lewistown, MT.  102.3 miles.

After packing up, I headed into town for breakfast at a great little coffee shop at the north end of town before departing. The town was buzzing, and people were arriving from near and far origins to partake in the annual Fort Benton weekend Summer Celebration. The pig roast was kicking off the festivities, starting at 10 am. At breakfast, I met folks from Calgary, from the San Fernando Valley (CA), from Oregon, and elsewhere. 

Determined to get ahead of the thunderstorms, I was on my bike by 9 am, headed for Denton, a small town (pop. 256) about 60 miles away.  Riding down Main Street in Fort Benton, making my way to the bridge, I was stopped by a woman crossing the street. "Hey, yer not leaving yet, are ya?"  "The pig roast is startin' up here in just a few."  I wasn't sure why she was singling me out, or how she knew I was leaving. Then, it hit me. She was the nice lady running the museum that I met and talked to the previous day about my travels.  The people I have met in these small towns are super nice, friendly, caring folks.  Running into her on my way out added yet another bit of specialness to my experience with Fort Benton, and gave me a lot to look back on as I crossed the Missouri River headed out of town. 

Starting out, I had to climb out of the Missouri River floodplain and back up on the prairie.  Clouds seemed to have a head-start in their development for the day, and I would occasionally get a few drops on my arms, none staying around long enough for the arrival of the next drop.

I was making good time, feeling stronger after taking a day off. The weather was looking more threatening, with a big thunderstorm nearby. I came upon Geraldine (pop. 261), and decided to turn off the main road to see if I could find something to eat while hoping the weather would settle.  Crossing the railroad tracks, I was in front of an old small-town, turn-of-the-century wooden train depot, the "Geraldine Milwaukee Depot", built in 1913. 

I then found the "Home Cafe". Entering, the owner, in her 60's, greeted me. Barbara was her name. "We're doing pizza today, she said.  On the counter, stacks of mason jars filled with homemade chokecherry jelly were for sale. Barbara, and the chef, Monica, picked the berries from their back yards in town. 

I couldn't resist buying a jar, but knew I couldn't transport it.  So, after lunch, I went around the corner to the post office to ship the jelly to Victoria. Of course, I paid twice the amount for the shipping than the jelly, but it would be a special surprise for Victoria of something foreign to Southern CA.  When I entered the post office, the lady behind the counter greeted me by saying, "Nice Shirt."  Confused by her odd, but friendly greeting, I looked down only to realize that I was wearing my "U.S. Postal Service" cycling jersey. 

Back on the road, the weather now improved, I continued on. The roadside wildflowers were intense, with varying shades of purple, yellow, and white.

I stopped to take some pictures several times. 

In some places, patches of color blotted the landscape for as far as the eye could see. 

The yellow-flowering plants were most common.  In the background, a flat-topped landform, a butte, could be seen. "Square Butte" was its name, and the small town situated in it's shadow shared the same name.  One of two geologic features in the area, it is a laccolith, or a convex lens-shaped accumulation of magma underground that bulged the landscape upward, forming around the end of the Mesozoic. The composition of the magma and the rate of cooling was responsible for the type of resultant rock, named after the nearby town of Shonkin, called "Shonkinite". 

 

These features dramatically interrupt the otherwise flat or gently-rolling landscape. Below, a photo of Square Butte squared. :)  The town in the foreground and the landform in the background. 

Forging ahead, I came upon Butte Creek.  As I rode over the creek, I saw something moving adjacent to me, on the other side of the guard rail. I slowed down as I passed the rail, looking over my shoulder to see what it was. It was a badger, looking over it's shoulder, stopped, probably wondering what I was. I've noticed that I startle animals, and they stop to look, as they are not immune to my size, sound, and speed as they are with the frequent travelers of the road, automobiles (cows almost always stop their grazing and track my passage, and on a few occasions, the herd has ran alongside me, the lounging ones expending tremendous effort to get up and run with the rest of them).  I stopped, wanting to take a picture of the badger. We had a brief stare-off, and he ran off into the creek before I could get the camera ready. 

The biggest climb of the day was approaching, as I got closer to Arrow Creek, with the Arrow Creek Bench in the background. A precursor to the challenge, the steepness of the impending climb would be told through the story of the stagecoach troubles of navigating this landform in a roadside historic plaque. The sign, quoting the stage coach drivers, warned, "We started at 6 am, but it took us an hour and a half to climb the fearful badland hill on the East side of Arrow Creek."  "The steep and rugged Arrow Creek hill has been a challenge to transportation since the late nineteenth century", the sign read. 

"Great", I thought to myself.  Well, it can't be that bad with the modern-day paved road infrastructure. As I crossed Arrow Creek, my view of the head-on climb, the same view that the stagecoach drivers of the past quivered about, was telling. It was steep. As I got closer, I notice bright-orange road construction signs on the side of the road. 

The more I pedaled, the more impending the hill became. As distant features crept closer, able to resolve my "trail" up the hill, I realized that my navigation up this landform will be more like the trails of the old stage coach routes than I could have ever imagined, as the road was gone. Active road construction had removed the road completely, preparing the route for a new road to be built. 

The only thing between me and the top of this bench was a dusty path of packed dirt, and big, noisy earthmovers. A flagger at the bottom stopped traffic. I navigated past the semi, the giant combine, and the other cars waiting in line to speak with the man behind the stop sign. He informed me that the contractor would not allow any cyclists to ride up the hill. I would have to either turn around, or load my bike in the back of the pilot truck for a lift to the top. 

While a ride to the top should have been a wonderful gift to any sane person, I found myself conflicted. "Well, it's my only choice", my sane conscience told me. But, something was powerfully convincing me otherwise.  That something, was the fact that I had ridden a bicycle unaided, without any support, pedaling every single inch, from the Pacific Ocean, now almost a thousand miles behind me, to the place where I stood still, my feet on the ground, with my bike between my legs, my hands on the handlebars, staring forward at what has become an even greater obstacle in front of me, bigger than the hill itself. 

I was frozen. I didn't have to decide what to do because the stop sign in front of me allowed me to remain undecided. That was, until the pilot truck arrived, and pulled sideways into the driveway in front of me to turn around, a cloud of dust enshrouding me. I scooted forward, peering into the cab, a young man behind the wheel, looked at me, expecting my dismount and surrendering of my bicycle. I said nervously, and not really knowing what I was going to say, "Hi, my name is Judd."  I told him that I was riding a bicycle across the continent, that I had pedaled every inch, unaided, with a GPS to track my progress, and that carrying me up the hill would change all of that. This of course, was ignoring the practicality of actually being able to ride up this dirt-packed steep hill.  He said hesitantly, and sympathetic to my cause, "Well, I'm not supposed to let any cyclists ride up the hill."  I stared at him, not saying a word. How could I respond?  What could I say?  Then, he broke the silence. "There really isn't a lot of heavy equipment out right now."   "Do you think you could make it?", he asked.  Then, the practical implications set in. But, I didn't hesitate. What could be the worst thing that could happen. If I can't make it, they will pick me up and taking me to the top. I said, "Yes, absolutely I will make it!"  "Well, ok then, follow the last car."

I was overjoyed, on top of the world. Probably not the feelings typically experienced by those attempting to climb up the Arrow Creek Bench. The pilot car started out, and I followed the last car as it started to pull forward, my legs spinning as fast as I could move them, keeping up with the pack. The cars slowly began to pull away from me, and I was left alone to tackle the challenge, pedaling vigorously.  Once I reached the dirt, it was well-packed, and I knew then that I could do this, no matter how steep the climb. I was grinning from ear to ear the entire way up. 

As I came upon a few work trucks about half way up, a group of workers with hard hats stopped, all of their attention focused on me. It reminded me of the scene in the movie Blazing Saddles, when the black sheriff rides his horse into the town he had been newly appointed to. I just continued smiling, waved, and proceeded to pedal vigorously all the way to the top. A few hundred feet before cresting the hill and reaching the old pavement, a lone construction worker seeing my approach got out of his truck and stared until I reached him. "You know, since we started construction here six months ago, you are the only bicyclist to ride up this hill."  Still grinning, I said, "Thank you!"  Now winded, sweat dripping down my forehead, I put my head down to hide the tears of joy that were welling up in my eyes. When I crested the hill, a line of cars was in wait, with a group of people at the front of the line, stretching their legs and conversating to pass the time. 

Presumably frequent travelers of these parts that were familiar with the hill I just conquered, they spotted me and started cheering. "Wow, man!" "Way to go!", one said. I was on top of the world. 

The good feelings and adrenaline carried on as I rode at a good pace all the way to Denton. I has dinner in Denton, was full of energy, and still had a good four hours of daylight. In the distance, probably another 40 miles, was the bigger town of Lewistown. Sure to have more services, I decided, feeling invincible, to go for it. If I make it, it will be my biggest day ever at around 100 miles. 

In the final stretch into Lewistown, forming a triangle, at three different points around me, big thunderstorms had developed.  The setting sun illuminated their tops, a rainbow at the base of the storm to the east, with a clear path to my destination. 

It was an incredible ending to an awesome day. I ended up riding 102.3 miles, and I felt tired, but energized!