Author's note: The following is more a personal diary, a memoir, than it is a piece for public enjoyment. As such, it may seem long-winded and trivial. It was important for me to record my thoughts while they were fresh in my mind, and here they are.
Four score and seven... just kidding. Skip to Day One if you don't care about the back story or the bike. No hard feelings. This next part is for me.
Nearly three years ago I bought into the adventure (ADV) motorcycling craze. I've spent time on gravel and forest roads on street bikes, and while enjoyable it wasn't ideal. Nearly slick tires, stiff suspension, and fragile bodywork don't mix well with reduced traction, rocks, and ruts. I had been planning for years to find some sort of ratty old dual-sport bike, say in the 400cc class, to knock around in. But then I started seeing reviews on YouTube of the new Yamaha Teneré 700. It was touted as a revelation in nimble handling and, maybe more importantly, frugality. The ADV market has been dominated by large bikes like BMW's GS line and is now plump with competetors--600 lb. behemoths with equally grotesque price tags. Not the Teneré. It's small in both regards, by comparison.
Of course, no review is complete without comparisons to whatever the other makes are putting out, and KTM's new-for-2019 790 Adventure was the Teneré's prime matchup. For a few thousand more I could have more power (Ready to Race! is the slogan), sophisticated electronic controls for braking and throttle, and the new, game-changing saddlebag fuel tank, which lowers the heavy load of gold-purple liquid to knee level on the bike, dramatically altering the feel of the weight it brings.
Sounded like a perfect fit for a newly-minted middle-ager looking to get dusty. I put my money into a 2020 790 in short order and had it home in September of 2020. Pandemic, stand aside. I'm going riding.
Since the first mile off pavement I'd been fantasizing about growling up the many mountain roads I've traveled and passed by in life, spending more time and making more miles with my newly acquired mechanical capabilities. By spring of 2021 I had been planning a trip in my head. It would take me out to the area I'd been camping in recently with friends, in the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming, after passing through the legendary Black Hills of South Dakota. From the Bighorns I'd swing north, making my way up to the Crazy Mountains of Montana to revisit an area I'd spent time in hunting elk the fall before. It would be epic. I'd go alone, on my own schedule and with only myself to look after. Or maybe with one friend... if it worked out.
2022's riding season came on and I came to learn that I had a lot to learn. I took a couple spills in between studying technique on YouTube, and I lost some of the false confidence I had from nearly 30 years riding asphalt. This was a new game and I was a rookie. Best to bump it back a year. I'd be 50, which seemed like the right time to go. In the meantime I overhauled the KTM's color scheme, switched to some more off-road oriented tires and upgraded the windshield for better highway airflow.
After a long winter of planning, packing and repacking, acquiring new protective gear and luggage, and making the usual vroom-vroom noises in the garage, August had come. It was time to go kickstands up.
Day One
Home to Reva Gap Campground - 494 miles of mostly pavement
The first day was a long one. I decided to go nearly 500 miles to get the familiar flatland behind me and reach the edge of something more envigorating. I rode past corn and bean fields for a few hours, then the trees began to thin and things started looking drier. The rough hills of South Dakota brought a change of scenery, and of mood. It was nearly all pavement, but I did take a leg stretcher on a side road now and then, along with a break under the occasional shady tree.
A few more hours and I reached the edge of the Slim Buttes National Forest. Reva Gap Campground offers simple, natural space for a tired rider's hammock, and with great views. I made up some easy food, had a nip off the Bourbon flask, and waited for nightfall.
Day Two
Reva Gap Campground to Reuter Campground - 236 miles of mixed pavement, gravel, and range roads
After a night listening to at least three packs of coyotes sing I felt fairly refreshed and anxious to get further into the trip. Packing up camp the first day wasn't yet routine, so I took close to two hours to wash up, make something to eat, and stow all my gear on the bike. I made my way out to the highway, gassed up, and aimed south toward Spearfish, where I entered the main section of the Black Hills National Forest. Here I found my first real off-pavement miles. The road toward Deadwood was still in a fairly residential area, but after Deadwood it was starting to get good.
Shortly I broke out onto Highway 85, which was a sublime river canyon with perfect sweepers and great pavement. There were just enough lumbering Harleycycles to make for some fun passing, and I fell into a flowing groove that's been familiar and enjoyed for almost 20 years. It reminded me of Lolo Pass, the Blue Ridge Parkway, and many other memorable stretches of American asphalt. I then jumped off into more great back roads.
Eventually I came out at I-90 near Beulah, South Dakota. I gassed up and headed west toward the isolated lobe of the Black Hills. West of that is Devil's Tower. Red-soiled hills led to low forested mountains. I wound past many turnouts where RV travelers were setting up for the night, often with side-by-side ATVs resting nearby. They're the modern substitute for hiking, and they're loud and destructive. They also take up most of the road when encountered. It's a fad I hope fades.
With about 15 minutes of riding left before reaching Reuter Campground, where I'd consider staying for the night, the sky darkened. It sprinkled, then it rained. Then it really rained. And hailed. And hailed more. I had come out of the denser forest into the scrubby trees of the higher terrain, and the tree I took refuge under did little to protect me. In two minutes I was soaked through. Not having been paying much attention I wasn't prepared with my rain gear. After a bit the sky lightened, and assuming the weather was passing I jumped back on the bike. As soon as I rolled away the wind came, along with more rain and hail. It pounded.
I slowly wound my way down the now paved road to the campground and rolled to a stop alongside the pit toilet building. Ducking inside the water began pouring out of my clothing, first my gloves as I pulled them off, and then from my jacket sleeves. I was sopping. And cold. Shivering. With dark maybe an hour and a half away I realized I'd never get camp set up and have time to even begin drying out my gear. I pulled out my phone and loaded an app to find a hotel. An hour later I was in Sundance under a steaming shower while my riding gear dripped nearby. As disappointed as I was at having missed a beautiful camping opportunity, dry sheets and a warm room had their appeal.
Supper was fantastic Hawaiian pizza at Cowgirl Pizza and Laundromat as the three young men staffing the place boisterously shared stories and jokes. (The Hot Hula Girl is an exquisite sweet-hot medley on crispy crust. The aroma of the laundromat didn't diminish my enjoyment one bit, and a tall mug of stout accompanied very well.) Outside the evidence of the storm that had passed was in a main street strewn with leaves and piles of hail in gutters and pickup truck beds. The evening was gorgeous and cool.
Day Three
Reuter Campground to Crazy Woman Canyon - 241 miles of gravel, range roads, paved back roads, and interstate highway
I set an alarm to get an early start on the day's ride. The route was west through the last of the hills outside Sundance via gravel back roads. I set out and quickly realized I was underdressed, so I stopped along a hayfield to pull on layers.
Moments later I hit what was to be a regular thing on this trip--a dead end at private ranch roads. My inexperience in planning ADV routes led me to think I could get through where I could not. After some consultation of my GPS and maps I settled on a possible detour and backtracked to a dried up slough I had passed half a mile back where a two-track teed into my road. That was my turn. My nerves tensed a bit at the challenge that I saw. The road was rough and rutted. I'd need to call on all the skills I'd stashed away in my mind over the last two years. I slowed a bit and rolled on. So far, so good. I was ADVing as nature intended.
And then I wasn't.
The road had changed, and I hadn't noticed. It went from dry and rocky to damp, black soil. I was passing through a long, sloping hay field, and the tracks I was alternating between became obscured by grass. During one such transition I glanced down and saw that my front wheel was in a tire or rain rut--not too deep, but without traction. I wasn't ready when the front of the bike pulled left as I went right. I slammed down, hard, on the right edge of the road.
I didn't have any lack of clarity about how that just happened, but it was still jarring to the psyche. One moment I'm on a wave, conquering the challenge. The next I'm waiting for the numbness in my body to slide into pain. What did I just break (in myself or the bike)? Would I have to call for help? Had the residents of the ranch house far up the slope noticed me? How would this affect the rest of the trip (on only the third day!)? I remembered some wisdom I'd heard from other riders and stayed put. Assess the situation before jumping up in an adrenaline and embarrassment-fued lurch to pick the bike up. It wasn't going anywhere. The threat was gone.
I had hit the ground in one big slam, hip and shoulder. It was so fast that my right arm was still under my chest at impact, following the path of the handlebar. The pressure that had put on my ribs did damage that was familiar. As I slowly rolled over and sat up I felt (heard?) soft crunching in my ribs I'd felt twice before, once after a similar fall the first year I had the bike, and once from a bad play on the softball field. That could be problematic, but it didn't hurt as much as my hip did. It was one big ache that protested heartily with every movement. Job one would be to get the bike upright--it was drizzling fuel and I needed to check that out. Job two was to dig out some ibuprofen. I did those things and sat down for a think and a snack. It was still a beautiful morning.
The bike suffered some minor damage--tweaked fork clamps, a rotated and cracked hand guard, a bent windshield support, a bent top case mount plate, a broken top case reflector. I repositioned the hand guard and used my tire levers to partially restore the top case plate to flat so the case would engage without binding. The rest could wait. At least the fuel leak stopped when the bike was upright and rideable. I slowly loaded back up, favoring my throbbing hip, and contemplated my next moves. Backtrack? Continue on the sketchy detour I had chosen?
In the end I backtracked. I wanted the security of pavement on which to let my nerves settle. I rode west again, planning to make my way past Devil's Tower and through dry Wyoming hills north of Gillette and then on to the Bighorn Mountains. Some miles out, in a place with very little sign of humanity, I ran into the day's second dead end--a sign kindly warning me that the ranch I'd encounter in another seven miles was the end of the road. Frustrated and still sore, but thoroughly enjoying the blue sky and scenery, I made my way south to I-90 and slabbed it to Buffalo. It was hot and gusty, but an hour later I was off the interstate and making my way out gravel roads with the Bighorns ahead.
Crazy Woman canyon cuts through part of the southern Bighorns. It's a narrow road carved into a narrow gulch, with rocky outcrops on the high side and massive boulders creating falls in the small river. Its novelty attracts those who prefer to do their hiking by ATV, so many of the compact turnouts lining the road were occupied. The few larger campsites tended to have one or more side-by-side ATVs sitting beside pickup campers. I rolled past them, seeking solitude and silence, winding upward on rocky gravel.
Eventually I felt like I had left most of civilization behind, where the stream had reduced from a 20 foot wide whitewater tumbledown to a 3 foot crystal babbler. I wouldn't know it until morning, but I had chosen one of the very last sites in the canyon. Just ahead the road teed into a more substantial gravel road which angled over the top of the range. It was late afternoon, and vehicles growled by every few minutes until the day's light was fading, then they stopped. I had my silence, with the brook and the breeze for ambiance. I used my jet stove to boil some water, then made up a supper and pressed a cup of coffee. Their warmth did me good, but a chill was creeping in. I limped my sore hip up the steep road for a bit to try and generate heat in my body, then made my way back and packed up for the night. A good sleep in the cool air seemed likely.
Day Four
Crazy Woman Canyon to Cowley, Wyoming via the Pryor Mountains - About 200 miles of paved roads and gravel
It got chilly last night. My light sleeping bag didn't do the job as a top quilt in my hammock. A weather front had brought temps in the low 40s. That's not really cold to a northerner, of course, but I just wasn't set up for it. I wore my riding jacket liner and long underwear to bed, with a vest over the top, and my cool weather hat. Fortunately I had brought along some large chemical body warmers, and they got pulled out of the hammock's overhead storage pouch sometime in the wee hours. I still woke up shivering several times.
I got up not long after the sun. Since I wasn't exactly cozy I might as well get rolling. I hadn't been able to conclusively determine whether there was a fire ban in place before I lost phone signal, so I didn't dare build a campfire. Sure would've been nice. Oh, well. The forecast was for hot weather ahead, so enjoy the cool air now, I guess. I heated water and made coffee while I packed up camp, never shaking the night's chill before I left and headed further up the canyon.
I turned left at the head of the canyon and rode long stretches of gravel toward the west, over the top of the Bighorns. A lone elk far across a meadow heard me crunching and thumping past and made for the treeline. The sky was bright and blue, and the sun felt fantastic. My next turn led me to one of a hundred cattle grates I'd cross, and on the end post was a sign notifying travelers of the private property behind. I stopped and studied my maps, trying to determine whether the road was also private. After a bit I decided it wasn't and rolled on. Soon the red, stark ridges of western Wyoming became visible beyond.
I passed a large private reservoir surrounded by private cabins, an odd sight in this remote place. The stream draining below begged for a fly fisherman to try his luck, but I wasn't planning to fish in Wyoming and didn't have a license. My borrowed compact flyrod stayed in its travel tube lashed to the bike's luggage rack. I stopped atop a saged knob to make a phone call to my relatives in Helena. We had plans to camp together the following night, so I wanted to check in. Then I wound my way down to Ten Sleep, a little town in a string of little towns paralleling the Bighorns to the west. A big plate of pancakes and bacon cured all my lingering ails. It was already getting hot again, so I rode north toward the Pryor Mountains, where I had hoped to find dispersed, primitive, and solitary camping opportunity.
My uncle Tom and I had looked at maps a couple weeks before this trip, and we had plotted a route through the Pryors, first north along Bighorn Canyon, then westward toward the mountains of Custer Gallatin National Forest in Montana. In 90 degree heat I explored red gravel roads leading into the Pryor Mountains Wild Horse Range, a sanctuary for free-roaming horses descended from domesticated stock. Though I would have no sightings, it was easy to imagine them foraging through the seemingly endless juniper scrubland.
Ten or fifteen miles over low hills in sweltering heat I hit yet another dead end, again at private ranch land. I turned off the bike and contemplated my options. It was the middle of the afternoon. There was no terrain or forest suited to camping in sight (or expected, judging by what I could see). I had to head back south, and in my hot and tired state the only reasonable course was to take lodging for the second time. I regret not shooting any video of this part of the trip; I guess it wasn't a priority as I worked through the situation.
I returned to Lovell, Wyoming, with high hopes of finding a familiar sure-bet for ice cream and air conditioning while I searched for a night's stay. There's no such thing in Lovell. It offers cowboy bars and the odd family restaurant. In the mood for neither I sat against a chain-link fence outside the local high school and searched for a motel. The selection and prices left something to be desired. Frustrated, I realized that I was stuck in old thinking. I needed to check private rentals. Bingo. Six miles up the road in Cowley was a nice little guest house with modern accommodations. Feeling more and more heatsick I booked it and made my way there. I spent the evening with chills and aches. Turning in early, after making a convenience supper of one of the breakfast sandwiches and some local honey candy the host had stocked for guests, I found comfortable rest.
Day Five
Cowley, Wyoming to Forest Lake Campground in the northern Crazy Mountains - About 270 miles of highway, gravel, and rough mountain roads
My alarm woke me at 6:30. The day was again bright and blue, and it was pleasantly cool. I knew that wouldn't last, though, and packed up after a shower, enjoying another breakfast sandwich and coffee meanwhile. Chickens at the house across the street made conversation as I loaded the bike, and by 7:30 I was off. It was 57 degrees. An hour later it would be 71. The air heats quickly when it's that dry. I was sore and stiff from the previous day's adventure1, but the cool air felt delicious.
A pleasant run up the highway and into Montana brought me to the first stretch of gravel for the day--a winding route through the hills north of the Beartooth Mountains which border Yellowstone National Park on the north, and in which the famous Bearthooth Highway resides. For 60 or 70 miles I watched as they scrolled past, eventually arriving at the little town of Absorokee, Montana. I gassed up and had a snack, then headed north toward Bridger Creek Road, a low, meandering canyon road along a small river.
It was another great stretch of riding, and I found a rythm there on the bike which was only broken by occasional free-range cattle. Eventually the canyon ran out to dude ranches along I-90. I took frontage roads to Big Timber, where I stopped for water and groceries. By then it was plenty hot and I was grateful for a break in the cool indoors.
The ride north on Highway 191 became scenic in a hurry as the southern Crazy Mountains, with their impressive, jagged, snow-laden peaks, came alongside. It's great on a bike, being lightly traveled with many gentle sweepers. Eventually I turned west onto a many-times patched asphalt road. Some miles later it bent north, where I again ventured into true ranch country. The rough pavement ended at graded gravel, which then gave way to untended two-track. With little rain and level terrain it was in good condition, but I was still a bit jittery from the crash, so I took it easy.
At one point I stopped and could look both forward and back for more than a mile. I was on a plateau below Porcupine Butte, and the road seemed endless. The utter lack of human presence was stark, and I felt absolutely alone again, as I had back on day 3 in the hills of Wyoming where I saw the ranch sign. The Great American West is big. I continued on and connected with Two Dot Highway, which led me to Highway 12 running east-west. I had planned on taking back roads parallel to 12, but my old nemesis the dead-end had prevailed again.
A half hour or so later I was at the base of Forest Lake Road. Immediately I left graded gravel in favor of rock, ruts, and bathtub-sized potholes. Time to flex those ADV skills again. The riding was slow, but fun and challenging on the heavily-loaded bike. Bob and weave, work the clutch. Eyes ahead. Stay smooth.
The plan was to meet my Aunt Teresa and Uncle Tom, residents of Helena, at the campground. We'd camp and spend the following day hiking together. Now I realized the flaw in this arrangement: I didn't know if they were up the road ahead of me or still traveling from the west, and I had serious doubts about their car's ability to negotiate this road. It was brutal. At one point a Subaru came creeping down to me and I could see the rear tire lifting of the road as the front dropped into a pothole. This wasn't for either the uninitiated or the faint of heart. I pondered my next move as I rode, wondering what to do if I didn't find them at the campground near the top of the canyon. Phone service dropped away quickly as I climbed, and though I tried calling before I lost it completely I got no answer.
After more than an hour I reached the campground. It was empty. Sweaty and tired, I pulled off my riding clothes and heavy boots and sat down in my camp chair. I was also famished, and some snacks were devoured along with as much water as I could take. The hot, dry air had stripped me of moisture for hours, and I needed to recover. Fortunately, at this higher altitude the breeze was cool and refreshing. Now I had to decide what to do. Wait? For how long? Ride down and see if I encounter Teresa and Tom, possibly high-centered or with a flat, or wait at the bottom? I sent Jolene a message on the satcom I had borrowed for the trip and asked her to try and reach them. She did and couldn't. At least she was able to leave messages in case they eventually returned to somewhere with phone service. It was the rudiments of a backup plan.
So I waited, straining to hear vehicle sounds far below through the breeze in the tall pines. Several times I was sure I did, but there were a couple forest service trucks working the area, too, so it may have been them. Or my imagination. An hour passed. And another. I was almost to a crucial point in the day--I'd have to either stay put, ride down, or unload and ride down, which would be easier for sure, but would tether me to the campground. I'd have to be back before (or after) dark or I'd have nowhere to sleep.
Then I heard crunching--the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel. And then an engine. Silver paint showed through the trees outside camp, and my two dear companions came into view. It was a huge relief. I tapped out a message to Jolene letting her know, and watched them pull in, all smiles. It was at that moment that I realized without a doubt that there is no more qualified minivan driver west of the Mississippi than my uncle Tom. Over the last 40 years he and Teresa had seen worse, and probaly would again.
So we feasted on the classic camp favorites Teresa had prepared along with her unique offerings, and we enjoyed ice cold beer, and we talked until dark about adventures recent and distant. It was wonderful, but I was worn out from the day's intense ride and in need of a good night's rest before our hike the next day. I hung my hammock, and they arranged their van with bedding, and we settled in. Occasional gusts of wind interrupted an otherwise peaceful and pleasant evening's rest. I did not get cold.
Day Six
6 miles and 3800 feet of elevation, all told, up and down Mount Elmo
Day six was an off day, at least as far as motorcycling. After a hearty breakfast consisting of an array of whole and natural goodness, as has always been my aunt's and uncle's way, we jounced their van back down the road half a mile or so to a trailhead I was familiar with from a recent elk hunting trip. We loaded daypacks with windbreakers, snacks, and water and headed up the steep finger ridges leading to the saddle below Mount Elmo. I knew we'd have really nice views of the southern Crazies and Virginia Peak to the southwest. We chatted as we climbed, me huffing much more robustly than my fit, high-elevation relatives.
As the morning came to a middle smoke from Canada's wildfires closed in, giving the mountains a surreal quality. Teresa and Tom were disappointed that I didn't have prinstine views, but I had seen that in its snowy glory on my last trip. This was a different experience, and I appreciated it for that. The smoke was a bit harsh on our sinuses and lungs, but we did ok.
We reached the saddle and I felt up to summiting Elmo, though my bruised hip was a constant nag. Mostly, my low-altitude lungs protested the effort and I had to pause frequently on the final steep slope. We made the top and found some boulders to sit on for another snack and rest. Facing the northwests slope we found that we had phone service, so we took the opportunity to connect with our aquaintances for a bit.
Going down my legs got a bit mushy, being even less accustomed to long descents than climbing upward. By the time we got back to the van I was hobbling a fair bit. Miles up and down a mountain will do that to a Minnesota guy. We sat overlooking the creekbottom and had another cold beer, then I got out my long-ignored fly fishing gear and dropped down into Forest Creek. Right away I could see trout in the deeper pools and before long I hooked one on a fly chosen by Teresa at random. I spent a while working upstream as they waited below a large meadow.
That evening Teresa again presented a feast of chicken soft tacos and desserts. We made a campfire and talked more.
Day Seven
9 miles of rocky mountain road and 310 miles of hot Montana highway
The following morning we said our goodbyes fairly early as I broke my camp. They would do another hike that day, similar to the one the day before, crossing many creeks under blue skies. I admire their lifestyle and their ability. I always enjoy the company of my aunt and uncle and look forward to the next opportunity.
I was anxious to get rolling for two reasons. I had a long day of riding ahead--this was the start of the backtrack toward home--and I had a challenging descent to do first. It had been on my mind since I rode up, knowing that downhill, in motorcycling as in hiking, can often be more difficult. Holding a body or a bike back against gravity is demanding and can be treacherous. It ended up going well. I focused on technique and staying relaxed and did the 9 miles in an hour and a quarter.
The rest of the day's ride was a hot, dry, fast run northeast on Highway 191, passing the Judith Mountains on my right and the Little Rocky Mountains on my left. I had a really nice burger at Barky's Bar in Harlowtown, Montana for brunch (you can bet I had worked up a heck of an appetite by then). I gassed up and put some lube on the chain, then rolled on. North-central Montana is a bit like western Wyoming--dry, desolate, and huge. I really enjoyed the long views over taupe dry creek drainages, and I got in such a cruise groove that I didn't stop to take photos most of the day. By the time I reached Downstream Campground along Fort Peck Lake, with its massive earthen dam, the visitor center was closed. I'd have to do some learning about this fascinating place later.
I spent the evening preparing a simple camp stove dinner and chatting with the camp hosts about the racoon trap set just outside my campsite. I heard a Great Horned Owl calling its evening call and found that it was quite accustomed to people, letting me grab a few photos without much concern. I took a short stroll down to the lake, but mostly I sat. I was bushed. The evening started out gusty and hot, so I didn't get to sleep until nearly midnight. At some point during the night the wind died completely.
Day Eight
380 miles of remote northern highway through Montana and North Dakota
This trip was extended twice--once when I broke up the route through Wyoming to find a more appropriate pace, and once for my day of hiking with family. The day before I had decided to recover one of those days by reducing the route home to three days instead of four. Rather than staying in the north unit of Theodore Roosevelt National Park I booked another private place in Cando, North Dakota, which was about half of the remaining distance to home from Fort Peck Lake. I'd have rather camped, but sites with trees suitable for a hammock are hard to come by in that region.
I had set an alarm and planned to get up with the sun to beat the heat. As it happened, that wasn't necessary. Three owl chicks woke the lighter sleepers in camp with their eager squawks, demanding their breakfast well before sunrise, so I got up and broke camp. After a few hours on the road I stopped for a hearty late breakfast of my own at Gramma Sharon's Family Restaurant in Williston, a town heavily geared to the oil rigs surrounding it. Machine shops and logistical offices line the highway in all directions. I wondered if I had what it would take to live that lifestyle. Probably not for long. I'd stick to my preferred mode of hardship--this bike and long miles--and then I'd go back to my soft life with my soft job. Full of warm goodness I headed east up endless Highway 2 again.
Cando is a quintessential small western town, with half the buildings on the main street unoccupied and the other half holding insurance agencies, barber shops, and other staple American proprietorships. It was early evening by the time I rolled in, so almost everything was closed except for the bar a few doors down from my studio over one such business. I appreciated the quiet, though, and took the opportunity to have a nice walk about town, enjoying the humble architecture and street art.
I'd had a late lunch, so dinner was snacks and fruit punch. I watched two movies and slept well, thoroughly tired from the late night before and the long day's ride.
Day Nine
380 miles of barren, dry North Dakota and lush, green Minnesota to home
The start to day nine was bitter and sweet. I would be wrapping up a truly memorable trip, but I was looking forward to seeing my family. Evan was on the verge of taking his first job, and Adrien was already working hard in preparation for the upcoming Apollo High School soccer season. They're old enough to be living their own lives, and I'm not sure the noticed my absence much. That's just fine, and I had a day to ride yet before I was done.
The contrast between eastern North Dakota and central Minnesota is stark, and it comes on fairly suddenly near the common border. Before long I was in my home territory, running down Highway 10 through Detroit Lakes, then to the familiar sister towns of Staples and Motley, where I sat on a patch of lawn up against a tree for one final break. From there I came to what had been my daily commute for 9 years between Little Falls and home.
I felt good. I had challenged myself and done well. I had some great memories and a little more sand in the character jar after my mishap and the longest time I've spent on my own in life. It was good, and I'll do it again soon.
1 The term misadventure strikes me as odd. Any adventure is only worthy of the title if it involves some hardship, which is a necessary part of the adventure—it reminds us of our character, our mortality and our ability, and it is unexpected hardship which makes for the richest memories. An outing planned with absolute safety and comfort as priority and as a result passing without hardship is a tour, and I refuse to identify such an outing as an adventure on principle.
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