Starting in Philip that morning, the air was cool, and sun was shining. But with the cool air, the northern wind had grown. We could see it, fluttering in the cottonwood leaves and swaying the grass. I had long been anticipating this stretch; from Philip up to Faith it is 83 miles without towns along the roads, and only two tiny service stations spaced some 30 miles apart. This, I knew, would be our most remote stretch thus far and I had been hoping dearly that the weather would treat us kindly. I suppose in part I received my wish, as the air was indeed cool and the skies a mix of drifting cloud and light blue. But the wind was something to be reckoned with, something relentless and sweeping down from the north. It did not feel unkind, but it worked perpetually against us in the open and exposed hilly plains of northwest South Dakota.
The hills were not so overgrown and seemingly amidst the clouds as they had been approaching Philip, but it was nonetheless a continuous climb. All downhills were slight and unsatisfying, and seemed somehow to climb upwards regardless, leading only to another uphill. The wind was also strong enough that merely to descend involved serious pedaling.
There were birds chirping still around us, and sometimes coasting in the wind above us. Many were red winged black birds, if I had to guess, and what I would call plovers or sandpipers though undoubtedly they are something else entirely. These call pleadingly as they fly ahead of us, land on the road and scuttle quickly with their long tooth pick legs before we catch them up and they call in complaint and fly onwards, only to land again and repeat the process before finally veering into the fields. At some point, after perhaps a long 20 miles which at about 9:30 had taken us about 2 hours, we paused for a snack and to gaze around us. Yes indeed, it was vast and it was open country. Far off, perhaps, there were the tall poles of satellite towers and occasionally the dark outline of a farmstead. The grass was a silvery gold, and short and nodding. Sometimes it was the grass of expansive grazing field, a mixture of shorter prairie grasses, and some wheat fields as well, or round bales on the horizon. The cattle that we saw now and again were accustomed to the wide open spaces, and even from a ways off would turn to stare stilly as we passed, strange lone creatures that we were. However, that did not mean that we were alone. If my description gives you any hint, there were birds and trilling bugs and certainly many other hidden living things, so though it was vast it was not lonely and merely gives the facade of emptiness. The sky had opened up widely as a vault to the clear heavens.
The wind was indeed cool, almost cold at moments, like a chilled wind off a frozen lake on a sunny spring day, so that our skin was alternatingly clammy from sweat and then warmed when touched by full sun. The flocks of clouds were sailing quickly above, and their shadows moved along the ground towards us, bringing us into cool shadows, and then back into sun. It was cool enough at times to be unpleasant in the wind and I even put on light long sleeves.
For the first part of the day, I found myself more tepidly amused by the wind and the conditions, and occupied myself with gazing fondly and quietly around me (and pedaling). Laurel was in the lead nearly the whole day, and I wished I could get ahead and maybe offer some help against the wind. But truth be told, I could not have gotten ahead no matter how I tried, for I felt more that I was hanging on than moving forward. My pace that day was just enough to stay close, but never enough to overtake.
After just under 30 miles, there was finally a tiny, lonesome rest stop. A small building, and two gas nozzles. Inside there were only a couple freezers and a shelf of snack foods, though the seating area seemed very nice if perpetually empty. The old man, wind and weather blown from years I think, seemed to be perplexed by us. Perhaps suspicious even, but not in a mean way. Not many passed through, I would guess, save truckers and locals, and near to the Sturgis motorcycle rally perhaps a handful of bikers (though we were bikers, were we not?). He showed us some late 1800s barbed wire, and kept one eye on us as we sat and ate a snack. Maybe it is that we are strange. Two young women out of nowhere, on packed bikes and travel worn, drinking orange juice and eating cookies. We likely seem naive, and yet our very presence in such a place hints at our experience. We must know something, to have reached such a place, and maybe it is this contrast that perplexes people. He told us, in his gruff, aloof, and quiet mien, in response to my comment about the remoteness that people were good out here and help each other out, so we should not fear if we run into trouble. In fact, though highway 73 through this area is quiet, there is still traffic now and then, trucks and semis and and some cars, so it was good to know we might have aid if it came to it.
As we got on our bikes the air did seem cool in the wind. From this station, the road went west for about 6 miles, and we were often biking sideways from the gusts of wind or being blown off a straight course. Still, I preferred this to taking the wind head on, and wished the road would keep west longer. As we were gettin going again we noted a sign that said the next service station was not for 27 miles. Eventually, we did then north again and I was less amused by the wind now. You may learn, if you bike or travel against the wind, that its howl in your ears and even touch on your body can become frustrating. But for now, it could be dealt with and we continued on with level, and still mostly positive attitudes.
Looking at maps apprehensively in the days leading up to this section, I guessed though did not wish to voice that we would also be crossing the Cheyenne River valley. This is another reason I had hoped for less strenuous conditions. We had been forewarned, back near Butte NE by the group of truckers and farmers, and by one trucker in particular who knew the roads that way, that the most difficult portions were behind us (except for his many mentions of the open country here) save for the Cheyenne River. This was a steep climb, enough to pull a semi load back heavily. So I knew we would be facing it in time. And as time would have it, if was today. Both Laurel and I guessed at it long miles before we reached it. The road, which is always a gradual uphill, began ever so slightly to downturn. I am extremely suspicious of any downhill, as it forebodes only trouble. Now, it was unmistakeable that we were slowly inching downwards. And far, far on the horizon there was what seemed to be a line that dropped, somewhat darker, and a wavering outline of different hills. Yes, we knew, there was a river valley ahead. Out here, your eyes can see so far ahead, many many miles ahead, ere you arrive yourself. We watched it, and said nothing of it, until we were nearly upon it.
Despite what may seem like dislike towards river valleys, they are unfailingly stunning. Here, amidst a seemingly endless field of rolling hills and grass far in every direction, the lands suddenly dips down into a great secret. A whole vast other landscape, tucked into the earth, that seems ony a long line ahead from a distance. Like opening a shell -- the textured outside as the endless grass lands and hills, and the inside altogether a different marvel. We have passed through a number of river valleys so far, and though I am outwardly exasperated by the effortless loss of all the hard won elevation we have climbed, I could linger in them far longer. At the top of the true descent, there was a warning sign for semis of the steep downhill. Looking across from high up, we could already see our road on the other side -- as if the land, like a bridge, had collapsed and now it was far off. It was a long, curving climb back out. How much easier it might have been, to fly across or, if a giant, to take one long step over. But we were not giants, and are very small, and so our road was down into the valley. This was the Cheyenne.
Hills rippled in green multiform around us, bright yellows, and subtle browns, and some greens that were the hues of lichens, though it was not lichen but the hues of plants and vegetation along the hill sides. Ah, the hills of these river valleys, as if they had once been long and rolling but had been condensed together, pushed together between two hands, to ripple and take all sort of shape, tumbling over each other in many different forms and molds. Thus we began our flying descent. These are indeed exhilarating, even if they forebode an effort ahead.
We came to a stop at the bridge at the bottom, both in admiration. Swallows (or what I call swallows) again swooped in clouds above the bridge. We could look upwards at both curving roads and around us at the sea of hills, so hidden within the valley save for that hazy line which only hinted from far off. Down a long road there was a white, old steepled church and a small cluster of homes. An enviable existence! If you have a chance to visit the Cheyenne River valley, do so as it is a sight to see, and graciously arrayed in earths finest forms and hues. After pausing at the bottom, in high spirits and no small amount of all -- and gratitude, for me, for such a place and that I might stand there -- we turned ahead to the long, long, long climb before us which snaked its way back to the land above. As Laurel remarked, in terms of biking, it is rather what goes down must go up. So it was. But as it had been with the Niobrara river back in Nebraska, we are both stronger now. The valley lessened the wind, and I cannot say whether I preferred the climb or the wind (which speaks much for the strength of the wind against us that I might prefer such a climb over it!). Just as I was starting, with Laurel already on a head start, a silver pickup passed and circled to pull into a drive way before me. I guessed that he wished to address me, and sure enough when I came close he rolled down his window. It was a somewhat older man, a rancher I would guess by his low gentle voice and kind face, and clothing, and he offered kindly that he could give us a lift up to the top. He told me that, from where Laurel was already it became steeper still, and that it was perhaps half a mile to the top. He seemed like such a kind and interesting character, I was sorely tempted to accept if only to talk to him a bit and ask about living in such a place, but I knew I could tackle the climb even if it would take awhile. I thanked him heartily, but said that although I may find myself walking a stretch, I should make it. I told him, as a joke, to check back in a few hours though just in case! He is the second pick up truck to offer a lift, and both times I have wished I had accepted the offer not for being tired but out of gratitude. It is a very kind thing to make such an offer, to see someone who may be in for a struggle and to take the time to stop. And I have always felt a bit rude not accepting that kindness! Even if it is unnecessary, I feel it is rewarding to the one offering aid, to have contributed in some small way to another, and it would be well of me to set aside ambitious ness and stubbornness, in favor of their offer. But oh well! Of he went, and up I went. As with the Niobrara, I could feel my strength had grown. Though I was long and slow, it was still in many ways quite quick and smooth that we made it up! Perhaps it was again the beauty of the scenery and relent from the wind that made it seem not so hard at all. Before I knew it, I was cresting the top. If I had not stopped part way to take a picture (risky business, as you lose your momentum, but it was worth it!) I might have caught all the way up to Laurel. A rarity indeed. But as it was and as it often is, she was waiting for me already at the top. We had agreed on snacks at the top, and paused briefly to eat. In my opinion, we ought to have sat down a while and used the view for a good lunch point (as there would not be anything along the way) but we did not.
From here, we had a few more miles to go before the only other gas station. This took awhile again in the wind. We finally reached it and had some milk and juice and a snack. Two men pulling a pontoon offered to sell us a boat to pull between us and talked amicably with us about our trip. He was quite surprised to learn we had come all the way up from Houston!
From this station to Faith it was still another 28 miles. And it was already far past noon. It was at this point that I began to lose hope. We had worked hard all morning and come a long ways into such wind, and 28 miles was a lot left for our effort. And the wind had not settled. I knew, with foreboding, that this was too far and received a very clear sense from my body: too far, too much. I was out of energy. Very literally. This is one of the clearest signals I have ever received. Walking or running, I knew I could go onwards, but as for biking, that was it.
I started out briefly in front of Laurel, but I was moving very slow (though what I will point out and what sometimes folks may not know is that, generally, if I am moving at all I am moving as fast as I can). Laurel quickly overtook me. And became smaller and smaller as I could not keep up. This was a terrible stretch. There were no signs with distance, and I could not stop to try to check without falling even more hopelessly behind. I could not stop moving, because there was no way to reach Laurel. At some point, I knew I needed to take some time to walk and can down, but even shouting at the top of my voice I could not reach Laurel. Often, for her to keep going, she puts her head down and just goes. This means, for me, if I lag then I am left in the dust. I gave up trying to catch her, feeling nonetheless the needless frustration of having to hurry along. I hopped off my bike and began to walk for some ways. I have energy for walking, always, and I could walk hundreds of miles. Laurel never walks, but for me, it would be such a help now and again just to change things up with a mile of walking. Alas, I was on my own and Laurel a persistent spec far away. I could not stop, for fear of falling hopelessly behind, and felt pressed and overwhelmed and done. I would have taken a ride, had anyone stopped. Not being able to keep up, I even felt ashamed and my head was low -- but as I thought, I knew that I should not feel shame and not make comparisons. I had covered, in the days past, great distances and had my own grit. But this is hard to remember when you can never seem to catch up.
It seemed to take a long time on foot to reach Laurel, who far away had stopped atop another hill. I was persistent in walking and not riding to get to where she was, though. I knew walking would keep me calm, and I was so very sick of biking. I knew what I needed: a rest day. This has been just about the only thought I've had for at least a weak. Reaching Laurel, she said we still had another ten miles, as I had suspected. I'm quite good at estimating distances and pace by now -- and sometimes feel miserably accurate. To be honest, I wasn't at all sure I would make it, at least by biking. Every fiber of my body loathes biking. It is remarkable to me how much energy for walking or running I feel, but not biking. I got back on to try to keep up, and did not drop far back. I felt anger at points, to have gone past what I knew had been my limit without a day off. As day 21, it marked exactly three weeks of biking straight, everyday. That, to me, seemed foolish and I would not recommend such a stint. Rest is a source of strength -- it is how you heal and it is how you grow. Some see it as weakness, but this is not how I feel or how anyone with good experience should feel. Those who act in such a way, in my opinion, to far more harm than good. And they lose more than whatever they aim to gain in doing so. I had been foolish not to stand up sooner and be adamant in taking a day off. And it had led to many days of needless frustration and pain.
I gave all that I had to cover the mileage that day. Nervously, I mulled over how I should break this to Laurel. I knew without any doubt whatsoever that I could not repeat today. I knew that I would not be able to finish such a distance tomorrow -- it would lead only to me running out of energy, in the middle of nowhere. A dangerous game. We went to find a motel room in town. One of the motels was, to our great surprise, completely full! We circled back to the other, and actually got the very last room available. Someone called just as Laurel got the room, asking if there were vacancies. So we did have some luck playing in our favor, at the very least. Indeed, for all the challenges, we must have some fortunate following us and protecting us when most important, though not always when most wanted. Such is the way of things, and I need to remind myself of that good favor. We had a room for the night, at the Branding Iron Motel in Faith SD, the only town for at least 45 miles. We had covered 83 miles.
I avoided saying anything about tomorrow all through dinner, and I did not work up the courage until near our bedtime. I had mostly curled up on top of the bed, feeling so nervous. Then, I finally admitted that I did not think I could ride tomorrow. I know Laurel is very strong and can seemingly go on forever, even though the going is tough. But I hoped that she would be able to recognize some of my reasoning and luckily she assented.
But hey! Faith is a nice little town, and who would have guessed it is also the self proclaimed T-Rex capital of the world. The most complete fossil of a T-Rex, called Sue, was found about 15 miles from here. So there is a little museum, and I know I for one will enjoy a day off the bike. A chance to refresh and make our push to the border. We have about 500 miles to go, so wish us luck!