Now, here I must be honest: I was also very frustrated. A trend, I suppose you may have noted! This is because, to me, if my dad arrived early that morning or later in the morning, either was more than fine by me. I would just be relieved if he arrived safely, and to see him again. Although I had thought, in speaking with him in the days and week before, that he would arrive early and all would go as planned, I was mostly just grateful that he was willing to go through all the strife and driving and hard work of coming out to meet us all the way from Minneapolis. My dad is an amazing man, who has many times in my life gone above and beyond to help and support me. He is among the hardest workers you will ever meet. He is also under an immense amount of stress these past years, due to family and finances and all sorts of other troubles. In addition to his stress, he has never been especially good at planning or listening to others when they suggest he plan better. This was no different. Being nervous to take work off on Monday, he had worked all day and then still taken off that evening to drive through the night. Therefore, inconvenient as it may be not to start biking earlier in the day, that was nothing compared to the effort he was making. I should have stood up more sturdily and emphasized this to Laurel, who I sensed was not excited to wait until he would arrive. Whether it was because she was apprehensive to get on her own way homewards or merely to make the last distance early in the day, I do not know. But I felt some sort of tension in the air when we figured my dad might arrive around 11am. Even now as I think on this, arriving at 11am after driving all through the night is ridiculously good time and really incredible. Why could we not enjoy our last day of riding -- a mere 53 miles -- and relax that morning until my dad could join us? Why must we hurry onwards? Why must we hurry at all? I guess that Laurel had been thinking of trying to catch a plane or bus or train (some combination) as early as that evening, but this was such unrealistic and inconsiderate thinking, I felt. I said to her that it would not be wise to reserve any form of homeward ticket for Tuesday, and that Wednesday would be the soonest reasonable and manageable option. There was no way I was going to try to rush the last stretch to the border so pointlessly, and more than that there was no way I was going to add that amount of stress and burden to my dad, to try to get us to wherever depot or station she hoped to reach. If I haven't explained earlier, Laurel had considered either coming back to Minneapolis with me (where she will be moving for graduate school very soon) or heading back to Seattle (where she just finished her masters, and where her family would be coming to meet her in a weeks time). For quite awhile I thought she had settled on taking Amtrak from Glasgow MT to Seattle. But in the last few days before the end, she told me she might come back to Minneapolis, or might even try some sort of flight from the nearest airport. I told her I would do my best to get her wherever she needed -- whether that be an airport or station in Montana, or whether that meant coming back with us. But there would be no way to do so on the very same day we would finish. It would just be too unwise, if anything should delay us, and far too needlessly stressful. So, after trying to explain this (I become very nervous to say such things and often feel too meek to speak up), Laurel did her best to finalize and strategize for Wednesday: a flight out of Billings combined with a bus from Glendive to Billings. She said this combination was her first preference, so that is what I said we would try to accomplish.
Next came negotiating for that morning, and this is what we discussed the evening before. I was not brave enough to insist that we wait for my dad, sensing her anxiousness. I should have been firm, and not wavered. But I was unsure of her thoughts, and so not knowing if she was displeased or what she was thinking either way, I conceded that perhaps if the waiting became too long we should try to get biking by about 9am. We could leave our gear at the campsite -- risky, if someone should wish to take it, but everyone who had come and gone to the wide and spacious campground seemed good and it was unlikely anyone would stumble upon it in any case -- and begin biking without the weight. My dad could then retrieve it from the campground on his way to meet up with us. An added worry for us was that rain was forecasted for Tuesday afternoon, and we would prefer to beat it. As we were laying down to sleep, I told her as much: that we could get going by 9am if it looked as though it would be any later. This still seemed to be "late" to her, though from my perspective if we got started anytime by noon that was just as well. Starting early may be nice, but 53 miles we can cover in under 5 hours. Thus, even had we started at noon, we would arrive at the border well before sundown.
What I wish is that I had insisted upon waiting at the campground for the morning. That would allow me to keep checking in with my dad, to make sure he found us, to alleviate some of his rush to reach us, and to allow us to enjoy the morning. Even if we were hit by rain for waiting, it was the last day and we have gotten wet before.
So, now that I have explained the backstory of it all, I can return to where I left off: we woke up at the campsite, after falling asleep to a beautiful sunset, with boats far out on the water, and pelicans, and seagulls coasting above. In the night, the wind had picked up briefly, but calmed later. But morning it had picked up somewhat, and carried the mist with it in wisps off the lake. After stirring around 6am, I napped again after calling my dad. The air was cool, and the waves so near to us, lulling and lapping in the wind. I had listened to them through the night, and felt grateful to rest in such a place. Laurel got up and went over to the picnic table sometime shortly thereafter to eat something. I did not intend to get up, even if she did, as I wished to savor the cool morning and the lapping waves and the fresh air knowing there was no rush. After a little while, she returned to the tent. The wind was cold, she informed me. I closed my eyes a bit longer, though I had not fallen into sleep again that morning since initially waking -- rather, I lay in calm thoughts, attempting to enjoy the peace while deep down worrying greatly for my dad as he drove. Surely he must be tired, I knew. I had emphasized to him that I would far rather have him arrive very late, instead of pushing onwards if he felt too tired.
Just before 8am I got up. By then the mists had receded, and though the air was cool it was not cold to me. It felt pleasant to put on my light jacket (which had thus far served instead as a sleeping pad). I ate some breakfast and tried once more to reach my dad. No luck. He must be out of range, I knew, as I have not had any phone service myself since Kansas. I tried instead to reach my aunt and mom back in Minnesota to try to figure out where he might be. After strategizing a bit more, we took off our gear and packs and placed them at the picnic tables (hoping my dad would be able to spot them). 9AM arrived and reluctantly I got on my bike.
Our goal was to take what we knew would be 15 miles of gravel road called Milk River Rd. This follows the twisting turns of the Milk River out to highway 191, which would take us to the Canadian border at Morgan MT. I was also not so excited about this gravel road. But looking at the map, it did seem the most direct route. It helped us to cut more directly at an angle going northwest, as opposed to having to go south and then west to reach Malta, before turning back northwards on 191. So I conceded to it, knowing this, and hoping that without our gear we could cover it without major problem. (Also, I knew that it followed the Milk River, and hoped that at the very least this would make for even more scenic backcountry). We have had to take a number of stretches of gravel thus far, though not usually by choice, and have managed them. They slow us down, but they can certainly be done. In my opinion, however, they are not worth taking (unless of course you have the right tires for them) unless they truly cut down the distance by a decent amount. Otherwise, because of how much they slow us down and how much work they are, it ends up being far more efficient to add a few miles out of the way via paved surfaces.
We made our way up the gravel driveway to the main gravel road. It was somewhat manageable at first, though from the start I already had growing reservations. It was very loose and washboard in areas. Even light as we were now -- as feathers without our gear!!! -- I was thrown easily about by the loose gravel and proceeded slowly. It would be a long 15 miles, I thought. It would likely take even longer, I considered now as we moved gradually along, then it would have to just go further to Malta on the paved roads. After a few miles, I continued thinking of my dad and wondering how close he was getting. When would he arrive and was he doing ok? I stopped and asked Laurel if I could call him on her phone. To my surprise, I reached him, and he was in Montana perhaps an hour away. We continued further, but not very far from there I glanced at my back tire and realized with complete despair that it was shorn bald! The tread had been shredded, and in long strips along the surface it appeared to have been shorn as if run over knives. It was not ripped open, and was holding air, but I was so dismayed. It had not been that way, to my knowledge, the night before. I would have noticed it. The best I could guess is that sometime since starting that morning I had gone over something. We had crossed over a cattle grate, and perhaps this is what did it in. It had, of course, covered just under 2,000 miles at this point so it may also have just given out on the gravel and finally revealed its wear and tear. We got off the bikes and started walking for a stretch, hoping the gravel would become more compacted. Even walking it was bumpy, and I stewed. I knew that it would not work, and I knew that it had been a foolish attempt (even if some of our reasoning I felt had been good). I cursed under my breath hitting another deep sandy loose patch. Laurel turned back to me, and I think my thoughts were clear on my face. I confessed: this road would not work, at least not for me. We might have to reconsider. Luckily, she seemed to understand my distress. The combination of the looseness of the gravel along with the at least 11 or 12 miles yet to go, as well as the new trouble of my back tire being ready to fall apart made it pretty clear that it did not make sense to continue on that road.
I thought about my dad, and how close he was to arriving. By the time we walked our bikes back towards the campground, I guessed, he would likely be arriving. I suggested that what we may be able to do is ride with my dad to Malta, and then take the paved road from there. Although it meant that we would have to take a ride, it would not shorten the distance to the border. We would still cover 53 miles, just be starting from a different spot. At this point, it seemed the most rational thing to do. We continued walking back towards the campground, a few miles. Laurel's phone rang then and it was my dad! He had just reached the Nelson Resevoir and had picked up our stuff and was wondering how he should proceed. I asked him if he wouldn't mind coming a bit further down the gravel road and finding us. Not long afterwards, a silver van rumbled over the hill. He found us walking down the road. I was so happy and relieved to see him. As it turns out, he might have actually been able to make the crazy drive and arrive early in the morning, had it not been for all of the very nasty conditions he had encountered. He had gone through 200 miles of fog, and a lightning storm before that, and a rain storm with some 50 mph winds and hail before that! And all while driving through the night! And then there had been construction near Williston, out in the ND oil fields. Goodness my dad is amazing to have covered such a distance and still to have arrived at the campground about 10:30AM! I was so happy to see him.
We loaded up the bikes into the van, and he drove us to Malta where we would start (and where I hoped he would rest and take a nap while we rode!). I was so concerned about my balded back tire, and knew it was likely to give out along the way. But I figured I would get as far as I could before it blew, or gave in. It was about 11AM by this point. Inwardly, I was frustrated as I noted the time. Had I spoken up firmly, and had Laurel been less insistent upon starting early, we might have simply waited calmly at the campground for my dad to arrive. But what was done was done. We started north on 191 out of Malta. The road was narrow, and very calm with little to no traffic. It ran along in the valley of the Milk River for quite a few miles, with beautiful little grass-covered hills of all shape, and large stones freckled like resting sheep across the golden-pale green. During this stretch there were also deer flies chasing after us, and I could see their shadows hovering along next to mine on the road. They sure like to bite my flanks! I've got close to 50 bites accumulated just there. But the road itself was beautiful, and we moved swifter now without any gear. It is so easy to bike without gear! Do not take it for granted!
After perhaps 15 miles, I spied a looooong climb before us, coming out of the valley. We climbed slow and steady up, and goodness I must say we have grown strong with all our hills. Though it was long indeed and a steep grade, it hardly troubled us except to slow us down. Otherwise, it was not much of a strain beyond a slight nuisance. Coming up to the top, we were again up high, although before us the land rolled out in grassy hills with the horizon stretching endlessly, and you might not have guessed it was high up unless you happened elsewhere to come to the drop-off of a valley. We stayed up among these hills to the small town of Loring. My dad, shortly after we had surmounted the long climb and reached a turn off for another road, had come found us. Pausing for a drink, I had looked behind me and seen a silver van moving slowly along. Ah, my dad, I guessed! He pulled up beside us and said he hadn't been able to fall asleep, so he might as well stay awake! Mind you he had already stayed up all night and it was now perhaps 2 o clock. We told him it was about 14 miles to the town of Loring, and hopefully there would be something there, but we would meet him there regardless. Now the road was again smooth among spreading wheat fields and some hills. Although a few clouds had spread behind us, they had not reached us and above it was still mostly blue sky and sun. Off in the distance, towards the west and sometimes up ahead, there were faraway white puffs of cloud just above the horizon line. These looked to me like the prancing lines of white buffalos, running along, painted on the blue of the sky. It seemed we had truly lucked out – the thunderstorms predicted for that day and the day before had never materialized and we had good weather for the end.
Coming down a slight hill, we could see Loring below. There were only a handful of buildings, among them a small white steepeled church, as little boats in a sea of grass and hill and sky. I could see the silver van pulled into the small post office. Otherwise, there did not seem to be any place even to fill up our water bottles. Having started in somewhat of a hurry from Malta, we had not even had much of a chance to fill up all our water containers. I had been a bit apprehensive of this, leaving Malta, but knew that as my dad was with us today, we would have support in case of trouble. But now, having no more than a sip left in our water bottles, we were thirsty. We pulled up to the post office, where my dad was waving to us outside. He told us that there was someone in the post office that we should meet, so we parked the bikes and came inside. There was a middle age woman behind the counter, the postmaster Jeanie Green. My dad, having arrived at Loring long before us and waiting, had gone inside to ask about local crops (where he confirmed his observations that they were growing peas in some of the fields. This intrigued him greatly, and as is his habit he had collected a few pods on his drive from Malta). The postmaster Jeanie was bubbly and gregarious. She spoke quickly and happily, and told us that it must have been meant to be, because the reason she was so excited is that perhaps a year ago a woman named Rebeca had stayed with her for two nights – this woman had taken 6 months to walk the entirety of the Keystone pipeline, at 20 miles a day. She had finished in November, just as it was getting cold, and had pulled a small cart with her which she could use as shelter in extreme weather, and which was far more comfortable than wearing a pack. This woman, who coincidentally was from University of Washington where Laurel just finished her masters, was walking the pipeline to talk with people and to see the land, just as I had done on bike. I could understand the postmaster's excitement that, out of the blue, we would appear on bikes doing the same journey. And even more serendipitous, she had been close to heading home before my dad arrived, and so if he had not been joining us for the last day we would have missed her. She asked to take a picture with us, and we exchanged contact information. She showed us the picture of her, her cat Ming, and the young woman Rebecca, which she said she had also coincidentally had with her that day. She also told us that she farmed some, and that she currently had one hundred something chicks to take care of. Loring is just 14 or so miles from the border crossing to Canada, and apparently chicks can only be taken across the border if they are under three days old. So these chicks had been too old, from what I gathered, and Jeanie had taken care of them. She also let us fill up our water bottles at the sink in the post office, so that was very fortunate as well. I am hoping that Jeanie will put Rebecca and I into contact. Rebecca, she said, is planning to use what she learned and observed from her long walk as her thesis, and potentially create a documentary. I am sure she was able to gather far more detailed stories and observations that I was able to, spending 6 months. In fact, I feel like what she did was so amazing. I would have much preferred to take a slower pace for our ride. But of course, there are many things to do in life.
She waved to us as we left. Now we were in the home stretch. I could hardly believe it as we rode. How had we come all this way? It seemed surreal. The day before, in fact, even though I had still been weighed down my gear when we neared the campsite it had been as though all the weight was lifted from my bike – I even looked back to see if my panniers had fallen off, but they had still been there. This had been the relief of knowing we neared our goal. Now, truly riding without gear, we were gliding, and riding without the knowledge of hundreds of miles ahead, I was lighter still. The land seemed to be helping us along, or so I imagined, for we came to a long sweeping downhill. This flew us through a number of miles of beautiful landscape. About 5 miles from the border, I asked Laurel to stop so we could eat some of the snacks I still had in my backpack. This is because we hadn't actually eaten anything since 7:30AM that morning, and now it was past 4PM. Even I, with my alarmingly slow metabolism, was feeling very hungry and felt that there was no sense at all in making the last moments uncomfortable. Luckily, I had stowed away two clif bars, so I gave one to Laurel who I knew was likely very hungry. Then we got going again for the countdown to the end. The horizon for most of our journey has been far, and so it still was. We could see far ahead, but could not see much for buildings or a town or what might be the border crossing. With only a few miles left, we could see what seemed to be a small box. This must be it, we guessed. Perhaps it was run based on the honor system, we joked, it being such a small and remote crossing. With one mile left, we could see the Canadian border crossing office on one side and the United States office on the other. We were there! We passed through the “To Canada” road, and stopped behind my dad. The border patrol officer walked up to us from the office (the Canadian one was hard to decipher, in fact, and was not much more than a temporary trailer as it was under construction). He was friendly, and asked to see our passports. When he asked what we planned to do in Canada and how long we intended to be there, we said only a couple hours and just to get a bite to it at most. We told him we had ridden there.
And so there it was, the end of a four week journey and almost precisely 2,000 miles. We had covered the entirety of the U.S. portion of the Keystone XL pipeline, in 29 days of biking (1 day faster than my original goal of 30 – although I would rather we had taken the full 30!). As you can see from the photo at the border, we were both very happy, though subdued. I think we were certainly ready to be done, or at least for a break. As you may know, I had originally intended to bike all the way to Hardisty. This is still another 390 miles or so from the Canadian border, through Saskatchewan and over to Alberta. However, only a day into biking Laurel and I had agreed that this would take us more than 30 days, and she had to be done before then. So we had decided to make our goal be the border (for now). If I am able to, I would like to return to Morgan MT and finish the Canadian section of the pipeline solo.
After crossing the border, we asked the border patrol what the nearest town was and if there was anything to eat there. The nearest town called Val Marie was about 34 km away (km now that it was Canada!) or 22 miles, and that there were a few places there to eat. We loaded up the bikes – my dad asked us if we wanted to bike there. No, Laurel and I agreed with a laugh, I think we would take the ride this time. Immediately crossing into Saskatchewan the road deteriorated and narrowed. It seemed to be a trail only, paved but roughly and with gravel patches, through a vast wheatland with pockets of wetland and far spread out abandoned farmsteads. I found it to be gorgeous, and after a few miles found it to look subtly different from the grasslands we had covered. Laurel said it didn't seem any different, but I think that there are subtle transformations in any landscape that take time and distance to reveal themselves. I found myself, suddenly, wishing that there was more adventure left. Yes, these narrow rough roads as small trails through the land, these seemed perfect indeed for an adventure. Calling for it, and calling to me. So I do hope to return. I could cover the distance in just under a week, and so I await the chance to do so. Let's hope that I can maintain all the strength and muscle I have worked hard for over all these miles. We in fact climbed 3,000 ft from Houston to the Canadian border, meaning that for a month we have more or less been biking uphill. The land has strengthened me over 2,000 miles, though it felt often like a struggle. I am grateful for the strength it has given me, and though I doubt I can maintain the muscles for long, I will enjoy the speed and confidence I have for the time!
From Val Marie, we turned homewards towards the U.S. Border again. This time we passed through the U.S. Border patrol, who informed us when we mentioned the sorry state of the road that Canadian roads are mostly like that. Huh! My dad also chose this moment to ask if the peas he had collected were edible, and to eat one just as the border patrol was raising an eyebrow and saying he wouldn't try it. My dad is often eating grains and crops to test their readiness and quality. We were headed to Glendive, but when we got there every last motel and hotel was packed with oil service workers and the parking lots packed with their trucks. I should've known. We had to continue on to the small town of Beach to find any place at all. In the morning, I drove Laurel back to Glendive to catch her bus, and then my dad and I made the homeward drive to Minneapolis.
What a journey it had been. You would hardly know, looking at me, and it is almost easy to feel that nothing has passed at all (until I look down and see the stark tan line on my legs or the slowly fading welts on my backside). I am grateful to all the many friendly people who spoke to us, and those who treated us with help and kindness. The world is good, and the the earth is gracious.
I hope in some way to compile what I may, writing and photos and some videos, so look for that in the future. Until then, my best wishes and my deepest gratitude to all.