8/27/09: Glendive, MT

My nest behind the hotel in Sidney was tenuous, but suitable. It offered barely enough concealment from the bridge, and was precariously close to the hotel parking lot as well as what looked to be an open field that held someone's horses. I've learned that when I am in a spot like this, I typically only half-sleep. Then, at first light I am immediately up and out to minimize my chances of being seen, so Thursday morning I was negotiating the tall grass and gullies by 6:30, as soon as there was enough light to see.

I instantly crossed the road for gas station coffee, which the cashier would not let me pay for after seeing the pack. I was still quietly shaking my head in amazement as I set up next to the busy morning traffic hoping for a ride the 50-miles south to I-94. Tracey made sure I didn't wait long. He and Justin were on their way to work in Glendive and, after a quick 15-minute wait, I was assured of my reunion with the same I-94 I had considered back in Fargo.

Tracey looked to be in his early 50's, while Justin was a young pup of about 22. They were insulation installers on a long commute from Fairview to Glendive. Justin said little, other than to comment on something Tracey would say, but that was fine. Justin reminded me of an apprentice under Tracey's tutelage. Tracey liked to talk and was interesting to listen to. He was quite cosmopolitan; well versed in all things Montana and plainly had a firm grasp on the skills needed to survive. He was fiercely proud of his military service years before, and had a special dislike for politicians, businessmen, and of course, Californians. This was beginning to develop into an unexpected theme. It was apparent that Montanans are intensely protective and proud of their part of the world; God's Country, as Tracey called it more than once. He and many others resented wealthy, liberal Californians migrating to Montana just to gobble up cheap land for development and the Californication of Montana's politics.

Tracey dropped me off at a dingy, yet strangely elaborate, Sinclair truck stop about 1/4 mile from I-94. I had slept with my boots on, in case I needed to bug out so, combined with my foot being wet from last night's encounter with hidden caverns, I could feel the telltale signs of developing trench foot. Off came the shoes and socks in favor of the slip-ons, and in to the diner went Todd for an 8am omelet and some writing.

The weather continued to be ideal, so by 10 I had relocated next to the road as the updating continued. I was flying a sign for Billings, just in case, but was content to just relax and write. By noon, I had finished the blog posts and had returned inside to inquire about a payphone to upload them. Apparently, the manager of this shithole took exception to my presence, making it clear that once my call was finished, I was expected to vacate the "exclusive" truckers lounge. Their idea of luxury is apparently,a tiny TV tuned to Fox News and two fewer flies than the men's room.

Naturally, I sat down, next to the one working payphone, and re-edited the posts. Not that they needed it, but to be antagonistic. Mr. Happy walked by several times to check on me, saying nothing in response to my inviting glares, and after the posts were finally sent I resolved to take my meager coffee & food money to the Conoco station, which was much closer to the freeway anyhow. As I left, I bellowed an inappropriately loud, insincere, obnoxious, "Thaaaaanks!" while noticing that this fat, squat little "Lounge Nazi" was working hard... on his Yahoo Fantasy Baseball team! I almost suggested that perhaps his time would be better spent plunging the backed up, fly-infested toilets. I was not a fan of this greasy, swarthy, little troll. Have I gotten that point across? Sometimes I understate...

Soon enough, I was at the much friendlier Conoco station, and then at I-94's ramp hoping to get toward Billings, 225 miles west. Tracey had dropped me at the truck stop because of my commentary on ID checks, and there was a Montana Highway Patrol outpost located literally a stone's throw from the exit. But, ultimately I decided that it may work in my favor. Actually planting myself beneath their noses, the last place a fugitive would inhabit, might keep them away from me AND encourage people to stop. As the afternoon turned to evening, I can only assume I was correct. Several officers drove by offering only friendly waves rather than suspicious interest.

Afternoon became evening, and as evening became night I found a perfect spot to camp in tall grass, behind small trees, and next to a fence 30' from the ramp. I had a nice, long, philosophical chat with Leslie under a star filled sky with satellites and shooting stars sailing by. Despite the fact I had only gone 50-miles and gotten one ride, I felt a calm contentment. I was fine being exactly where I was, and had a quiet confidence that things were exactly as they should be.

What a difference a year makes...

8/26/09: Sidney, Montana

Hopping into the truck with Rob, I thought this odd day would return to normal. I would be corrected.

Rob, predictably, worked in the oil fields as a tester and was on his way home, an hour away in eastern Montana. There was some confusion at first, as I asked him if he was going as far as I-94. He said that he was but I learned after we had already left Williston that he was going only as far as Sidney, 50- miles short of Glendive and I-94. A little improvisation is good for the soul, and he spoke highly of Sidney. I even had visions of taking a day to patronize the library and upload pictures, congratulating myself on finally making it to Montana.

Rob's route out of North Dakota was perfect. We passed the confluence of the Yellowstone and Missouri rivers, and historic Fts. Union and Buford. I had considered venturing down this way on foot if the situation presented itself in order to satisfy my Lewis & Clark curiosity. The fates had given me the best of both worlds: proximity and a ride. Rob and I chatted about his work and my travels the entire way, but there was nothing extraordinary about it.

Passing into Montana was a nice feeling. This state been a thorn in my brain for over a year, since deciding against coming north from Pocatello, ID last July. Now, as we slid thru Fairview and approached Sidney, I was glowing in the idea that I was about to tend to unfinished business... and cross nearly the whole damn thing. I had been hearing stories about its beauty for a long time. Now, I would see for myself.

Coming in from the north, Rob dropped me at an Exxon station toward the south end of Sidney with a warm handshake and wishing me luck. He was quite boastful of his fellow Montanans, and seemed quite certain I'd be in Glendive soon. Despite still running on next to no sleep, I had long since tapped into sustained adrenaline and began looking for places to hitch, so as to try take advantage of the remaining daylight. I settled on a spot adjacent to another gas station, next to the road, and in front of a small strip mall. The traffic was brisk, and I noticed that young people were actually cruising! On a Wednesday evening! I liked Sidney immediately.

My first indication that Sidney would continue the oddities seen in Williston was the the abundance of curious, friendly looks. It was obvious that Sidney had not had many passers-thru donning backpacks. I was quite the curiosity, particularly to a truckload of young girls who repeatedly drove by yelling. It reminded me of the cafe scene in Easy Rider, without the ensuing bludgeoning in the woods... I hoped.

The spontaneous acts of kindness crossed state lines with me. After half an hour, I turned around to see a man carrying a bag of McDonald's he'd picked up for me. He said he was sorry he wasn't going anywhere, had "been there" and figured I could use a meal. Then, shortly before the sun had set a young girl of about 17 walked all the way across the parking lot then, without saying a word, handed me $10. When I asked, "What's this for?" she just smiled and said, "Take it easy, dude." It's one thing for middle aged people to do this, but this especially touched and impressed me, considering it came from her. I am still kicking myself for not giving these people my cards with the website address, so they all could know just how astounded I was. In my surprise, it never even occurred to me.

As in Williston, rides did not accompany the gifts. So as the sun fell, I had to think about places to sleep. I noticed a police car occasioning by through the evening, but she had not bothered me... until I took my first two steps toward finding a nest. I was a bit taken aback by this particular cop. She was in her early 20's, and easily the most attractive lawdog I'd ever seen. However, I had to conceal a chuckle as I thought, "I wonder if she'd perform at my bachelor party in that uniform!" Sexist? Maybe. But, I would pay good money for that! Anyhow, apparently someone had seen the girl give me money, and made a complaint that they thought I was "soliciting work," which is illegal in Montana. When I explained why I was there, where I'd come from, and where I was headed, it was obvious that I wasn't interested in finding gainful employment, but she still asked for my ID. I diplomatically asked her what she thought of this arbitrary invasion of privacy, since by her own clear admission I was breaking no laws. She responded that it was Montana procedure to run the ID of everyone law enforcement comes in contact with. I found that laughable, but she was serious. I also found it amusing that she had never heard the phrase "papers please." Hearing that, I concluded that this pretty, well intentioned young lady may actually be better suited to a profession in the exotic entertainment field, rather than law enforcement. There are fewer ethical questions, and at least mindlessly following dictation (no pun intended) while performing a lap dance is an asset (again), and probably more lucrative!

Madame Law did give me some very good information on where to camp. She said that I could nest nearly anywhere off private land, as long as no one saw me & complained. The fine folks of Sidney were apparently freaked out by drifters, after having to endure a mentally ill vagabond who had hung around a bit too long. Understanding this, I assured her that no one would see me and I would be on my way at the first opportunity.

Keeping my word about not being seen was easier said than done, and nearly cost me a leg. I executed my misdirection technique, which entails walking one direction, then backtracking the opposite way to throw off anyone who sees me and is interested in my whereabouts. This is especially useful in populated areas. It was completely dark, and as I was backtracking beneath a bridge along a small stream, I learned the hard way that Montana has the same small gullies as New Mexico. But, here they're hidden beneath vegetation! I first discovered this after suddenly finding myself on my belly with my pack driving my face into the dirt. I was then reminded, again, when I found my left leg in a 3ft. ditch submersed to the knee in water. Lovely!

Once I found a decent spot behind a hotel, I didn't move. Not even to pee...