Railroad machine
I awakened at about 5:00 with another headache. I took some medication,
but decided that I was starving, so I went off to breakfast at around 5:30
AM. There seemed to be but one restaurant in town and it was the usual hangout
for all the locals. In Malta, there seem to be two distinct groups of people:
cattlemen/farmers; and, oilfield workers. They obviously knew each other,
but worked in different industries. The oilfield workers were discussing
pipe sizes at particular wells. One farmer was wearing a bright yellow raincoat
at 6 AM on a sunny day. When asked why, he explained that he was irrigating.
The fellow next to him was discussing how late the spring grain crop is;
that for 43 years he'd harvested the day after the County Fair, but that
this year, he'd be harvesting a couple of weeks later. A man who apparently
was in the livestock auction business, talked across the room to an oilfield
boss about the days when they roped against each other in rodeo competition.
They were all dressed in jeans and western shirts and I got some strange
stares as I walked in wearing a Lycra jacket and sporting Teva sandals with
purple socks.
Every gas station, motel or hole-in-the-wall around here has gambling machines.
There seems to be even more bars per capita here than in the Upper Peninsula
of Michigan. I gather that the folks are bored stiff and find it necessary
to drink and gamble to pass the time away. It is actually quite pathetic.
This is the land of intense feeling about personal rights. Montana repealed
its speed limit. The only limitation now on vehicle speed on any Montana
road is what is "reasonable and prudent." The meaning of that
phrase apparently varies by county. In some areas, it is clear that the
police are enforcing the old speed limit as the limit of what is now "reasonable
and prudent." In other areas, I've seen cars and pickup trucks go by
me on US-2, a 2 lane, at upwards of 85 mph (a police officer was telling
some folks in a restaurant that some drivers had been clocked at over 150
mph. Yet, there are numerous fatality markers from the days when there was
a limit. If anything, it would seem that the old limit was too high. I've
long contended that all 2 lanes nationwide should have posted limits of
40 mph, while rural Interstates or other limited access highways should
have no limits. The Interstates are designed for high speeds and there is
no danger in driving fast as long as there isn't congestion as in the urban
areas. I've driven 155 mph on Interstate 96 (years ago), but, on the other
hand, I tend to drive 45-50 on the two-lanes in my area.
When I crossed from Canada into the US, one of the
first noticeable differences was the holes in the traffic signs. Through
the Yukon, BC and Alberta, I'd seen very few holes in the traffic signs.
The first stop sign I saw near Cut Bank was used by several motorists for
handgun target practice. Everybody seems to have a gun to protect themselves
from the wilds. To me that's just pure hooey! In Alaska the NRA types claim
the need for handguns to protect themselves from bears. Handguns are not
adequate protection from bears. Its really some sort of macho thing. Nobody
NEEDS a handgun at all.
The shoulders are littered worse here with broken beer bottles than at any
place I've ever ridden. It is very difficult to ride on the shoulder when
there is broken glass everywhere (and those darn rattlesnakes), yet the
motorists don't see the glass and can't understand why I won't ride on the
shoulder.
As you can tell, I'm a bit grumpy today about Montanans. I wasn't treated
well in my never ending battle with motorists that seem to feel they own
the road right up to the white line on the shoulder. Some don't even care
if I'm on the shoulder, they just don't like me because I'm a bicyclist.
About a mile out from Malta this morning, for instance, I was riding 4 feet
to the right of the white shoulder line (very much off the road), just minding
my own business, when a motorist in a car passed by and honked. I looked
up intending to waive, but he "flipped me off" (gave me an obscene
gesture). What had I done to him? Had his children been eaten by a bicyclist?
Why do some people hate bicyclists so much? Is it some sort of jealousy
over the fact that we're free and enjoying ourselves?
I lightened my load considerably today. Now that there should be food and
lodging at regular intervals and I'm unlikely to face 2 day service voids
(like up near Grande Cache), I decided to eliminate my cooking capabilities.
I sent home my Sierra cook stove and pan. I also sent home some of my warm
clothing: the fleece jacket I bought in Watson Lake; my Bellwether warm
bike pants; my polypro long-john top; my helmet liner. And, I finally mailed
home all the receipts and papers I'd collected since Jasper. Altogether
I mailed home 6.5 lbs. I also gave away (to the motel cleaning staff) my
cookable food: mac & cheese, pea soup, ramen noodles, etc.; another
2 lbs. I'm sure the bike is lighter, but I can't honestly feel the difference.
I got out fairly late because I checked my e-mail, called my daughter and
took my time with the mail errand. I bought some apricots and Gatorade for
the road and took off.
As I was riding along the Burlington rail line, I came upon a series of
machines repairing the tracks. They seemed to be replacing ties automatically.
The machines were huge and moving along pretty briskly, because with only
one track, they were tying up traffic (I did note a freight train stopped,
just waiting, when I got to Saco).
Over the past few days, I've seen a number of abandoned ranches
and farms. This has to be a tough place to make a living. Summers are hot
and dry, winters must be miserable, and living so far from one-another,
people are sure to get bored and lonely. I guess that's why there are so
many bars in these small towns.
I stopped for lunch in Saco (say-coe), a nice strip town along US-2 and
the rail line. It is clear, though I'd never actually noticed before, that
before they had strip malls, towns grew up as rows of commercial storefronts
along the rail line and road.
O'Brien's served the usual meat and potatoes selections of the
cattle country--none of that wimpy vegetarian stuff for cattlemen: as the
Beef Council ad goes, "beef--real food for real people." I had
an excellent steak sandwich, fries and a Pepsi. It was a nice place full
of locals. They told me they get bicyclists in there every day in the summertime.
US-2 is the main Adventure Cycling northern tier route for trans-continental
rides.
The bartendress (I stopped in the bar to rinse my Oakleys) told me that
one guy came in on a bicycle puffing away on a cigarette and half-crocked
on beer. She said he smoked a few cigarettes, then bought some cans of beer
which he stuffed in his pockets for the trip west toward Malta. She figured
he rode with a continuous "buzz" on. It takes all types, even
among us cyclists.
Hinsdale was about as sleepy as a town could get. At 2:15 on a Monday, the
only gas station/convenience store was closed. There were 2 cars parked
on the main street. It even looked as if the post office was closed.
East of Hinsdale a few miles, I came on the most dreaded of road signs.
It was bad. While there were some paved stretches, there was
mostly loose gravel (some of it over old pavement--a slippery combination).
I experienced the usual sweaty effort to go through portions of intense
activity with the cars, traveling single file at car speed after the flag
person would give me the go-ahead. I ate a lot of dust.
Afterward, I stopped at a rest area, ate some apricots and drank some water.
It was getting hot: 93 degrees (f). By the time I got to Glasgow
(so unlike the industrial city in Scotland that I can't imagine why they
named it Glasgow), I was hot, sweaty, gritty and in no mood to camp out
in the hot sun. It was a about 4:30, so I was ready to stop at a motel,
but, I'd seen a sign advertising a museum, and wanted to get there before
closing. I'm glad I did.
It was incredible; one of the very best. They had an excellent collection of Indian and pioneer artifacts. I could have taken hundreds of pictures. I was exhausted and somewhat rushed to get to a cool shower and cold glass of water, so I didn't manage to read much or take notes.
 Indian "tipi" (teepee) made from 23 elk hides |
 Indian artwork on animal skin |
They had a couple of great examples of chuck wagons--the compact kitchens used to feed the cowboys driving the cattle across the range--but the lighting didn't allow me to get a photo (the Casio has no flash). There was a wealth of 19th Century frontier items and some more modern exhibits.
 Sheep wagon (the original camper--hauled along by horse for 70 years) |
 Ornately carved bar from the Buffalo Bill Cody saloon |
 1912 Harley Davidson (I didn't even know that Harleys were around so long) |
 Old tractor |
 Another old tractor |
 John Deere mower |
 Remember iron lungs? |
 Staff (left) helping visitors, Pioneer Museum, Glasgow, Montana |
On an adjacent lot, there was even more stuff to see (outdoors and in a barn). For instance, they have an unrestored old Burlington Northern caboose (see their website for exterior photo) and gave me the keys to look inside.
 Caboose interior |
 Caboose "head" |
The caboose "head" looked even worse than most of the outhouses I used along my ride. No holding tank here--just out onto the tracks.
Note: Perhaps I should mention at this juncture the fact that since I left Fairbanks, I've used outhouses almost every day. Many of the places I've been have not had running water or flush toilets. That was true for many of the campgrounds we stayed at along the Alaska Highway, my nights on either side of Grande Cache, and any rest areas or public washrooms I used up until this week. I expect from now on I'll be in civilization--where they have flush toilets for public use.
[Additional note]: Received from Pat Schuesler via e-mail 7/31/96:
The Passing of The Backhouse
by James Whitcomb RileyWhen memory keeps me company and moves the smiles to tears,
A weatherbeaten object looms throughout the mists of years.
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more,
and hurrying feet a path had made straight to its swinging door.Its architecture was a type of simple, classic art,
Yet in the tragedy of life it played a leading part,
And oft the traveler slowly drove and heaved a heartfelt sigh
to see our modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.We had our posey garden that women loved so well;
I loved it too, but better still I loved the stronger smell
Which filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer, And
told the night-o'ertaken tramp that human life was near.On lazy August afternoons it made a little bower
Delightful, where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour:
For there the summer morning fair you every care entwined
And berry bushes reddened in the steaming soil behind.All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies
Which flitted to and from the house, where Ma was baking pies;
and once a swarm of hornets bold had built their palace there
And stung my unsuspecting Aunt --I must not tell you where.Then Father took a flaming pole --that was a happy day--
He nearly burned the building up, but the hornets left to stay.
When summer's bloom began to fade and winter to carouse,
We banked the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs;And when the crust was on the snow and sullen skies were gray,
In sooth the building was no place where one would wish to stay.
We did our duties promptly there, one purpose swayed our mind;
We tarried not nor lingered long on what we left behind.The tortures of that icy seat would make a Spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the gooseflesh with a lacerating cob
Which from its frost-encrusted nail suspended by a string,
For Father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.When Grandpa had to "go out back and make his morning call,"
We bundled up the dear old man in a muffler and a shawl.
I knew the hole whereon he sat; 'twas padded all around,
And once I tried to sit there --it was all too wide I found.My loins were all too little and I jackknifed there to stay;
They had to come and get me out, or I'd have passed away.
Then Father said, "Ambition is a thing that boys should shun,
"And you must use the Children's Hole till childhood's days are
done."But still I marvel at the craft that carved those holes so true--
The baby hole; the slender hole that fitted Sister Sue!
That dear old country landmark! I've tramped around a bit.
And in the lap of luxury my lot has been to sit,Yet ere I die I'll eat the fruit of trees I robbed of yore,
Then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door,
ween the old, familiar smell will soothe my faded soul;
I'm now a man, yet none the less I'll try the Children's Hole.
This "Spartan" (after all, I went to Michigan State University, so was a Spartan) came closest to sobbing when using our outhouse on Gilmore Trail in Fairbanks one winter at -45° (C or F; they're the same at that temperature).
In addition to what I photographed, the museum has dioramas,
fossils, wildlife mountings, railroad memorabilia, etc. I loved it.
The Pioneer Museum is free. I left a donation. It is an essential stop on
any trip across Montana.
From the museum, I headed through town to what appeared to be
the most expensive motel in town, chosen because they had a restaurant on
the premises and I was in no mood to ride my bicycle any more.
72 miles.
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© Ed Noonan 1996, 1997