At last, the Mississippi

Mississippi River near Grand Rapids, Minnesota...
For weeks on end, it seemed as though we would never get to the eastern border of Montana, then came the plains of North Dakota.  The winds have been relentless, thunderstorms have threatening, tornadoes bypassed us, tires and brake pads worn dangerously thin. Then suddenly we were in Fargo sipping capacinos at the Great Northern Bicycle Shop and at last within reach of the headwaters of the Mississippi. Thankfully, the winds have been mostly at our backs and somehow our legs have agreed to keep pressing on. We've met some wonderful people, both in the places along the route and, increasingly, fellow cyclists along the route, with whom we exchange stories and gain valuable advice. Great to meet Sam (UK), Leo and Stephanie (France), Jeff (Vermont, USA), Jackie and Ted (Bemidji, Minnesota USA) and  to the lone cyclist  in  a  red  shirt  who gave us the tip on where to stay in Fargo.  Looking to dip our wheels in the cool waters of the Atlantic in some 6-7 weeks.

Grand Rapids, Minnesota...

In case you are wondering who the two young men in the 'Williston to Fargo' slideshow might be, our son Eliot (right) and his pal Alex (left), who were good friends and next door neighbors in Amherst, Massachusetts, decided to take a train ride across the country to spend a few days hiking and rafting with our daughter, Alysoun, in Heron, Montana.  We knew that the west bound Amtrak Empire Builder would stop in Williston, North Dakota for a few minutes so scheduled our ride to get there just at the right time, just enough for hugs and photos.  It was well worth the effort. We hadn't seen Alex for 10 years -- he is now three times as tall as when we knew him in Amherst, and Eliot is our anchor man in Stratham, New Hampshire.  Planning to have the cooler of champagne ready at Rye Harbor when we arrive there, to dip our wheels in the Atlantic, hopefully in about 6-7 weeks.

Si l'ete est pluvieux et morne

Many thanks to our good friend and fellow traveller through life, Jaya Conhye-Soobrayen for pointing us to the beautiful work of Haitian poet Jacques Roumain (1907-1944). The following is an excerpt from Bois d’Ebène. For more verses, please see 'Négritude et Créolité' by Lise Willar at Aux rives de la francophonie


Si l'été est pluvieux et morne
si le ciel voile l'étang d'une paupière de nuage
si la palme se dénoue en haillons
si les arbres sont d'orgueil et noirs dans le vent et la brume
si le vent rabat vers la savane un lambeau de chant funèbre
si l'ombre s'accroupit autour du foyer éteint
si une voilure d'ailes sauvages emporte l'île
vers les naufrages
si le crépuscule noie l'envol déchiré d'un
dernier mouchoir et si le cri blesse l'oiseau

Would anyone be willing to translate for English-speaking readers? If so, please send as a comment or email to jbrollinghome@gmail.com

Jacques Points the Way to Hope

Hope, North Dakota...19 June
Heading east toward the Minnesota border, Jacques reminds us that the purpose of the Long Haul for Haiti Tour is to help gather support for the people of Haiti in their long and difficult path toward recovery from the devastating earthquake of January 2010. We have recently received news that the the young ACFFC artists (who created Jacques) are helping to create a Memorial Wall to honor those whose lives were lost and pave the way toward a brigher future  for all. Thanks to Jacques, we reached the town of Hope, North Dakota and were not only warmly welcomed there but given refuge  from a severe thunderstorm before setting out on our way to Minnesota. To find out how you can help the children of Jacmel reach Hope, please visit ACFFC Website. Every dime will go directly to the cause. If you can't afford a dime or are suffering from 'donor fatigue' please consier sending us a poem, a song or a prayer. Thank you!

Reaching Fargo

Sailing into Fargo, North Dakota yesterday at the mercy of a blessedly cool three-quarter tail wind, we realize that we are measuring time in terms of distance (only 30 miles 'til lunchtime) and, conversely, distance in terms of time (looks like another hour or so to Fargo). Too bad the relativity theory has already been expounded.  Anyway, this thought has given rise to another poem-in-the-making, but in the meantime reaching Fargo is cause for reflection on all the reactions we have had from people along the roads of Montana and North Dakota when we tell them we are riding across the continent. Added words in parentheses are mine. Enjoy!

• "You what?  You mean on pedal bikes (not motorcycles)?"
• "You guys gotta be crazy."
• "What are you doin' (a darn fool thing like) that for?"
• "Aren't you a little old to be doing something like this?"
• "You know, they don't like bikers on the (Blackfeet Indian) Reservation. You could get shot."
• "Sure, you can camp out there behind the (tribal police) station, use the showers and all in there too."
• "Why didn't you just drive in an RV (like normal people)?"
• 
  
  "Well, if it looks like the thunderstorm is coming this way you can stay at my place.  It's not much, but you'll be safe there."
• "You're not environmentalists, are you?" We don't want no tree huggers around here."
• 
  
  "If you see a funnel cloud coming just get as far away from your bikes as you can and jump into a ditch or crawl into a culvert.  Good luck!"
• "I really think you guys are incredible, I mean, most people just fly by through here on their way to the coast. We don't see them, and they don't see us (farmers)."
• Raising funds for children in Haiti?  That's a wonderful cause. They need to know that even people out here in North Dakota care about them."

Time Out

Yellow dashes on the wet tarmac,
time passes, repeats itself in stanzas.
‘Tempo, tempo, tempo’

roars the choirmaster.

Keep in stride,
or move aside.

Time slips away,
is marked in digits
dials, kilometers, miles

Told in adverbials, growing wild
by the roadside and in fields
unfettered, unrestrained

JB

Binford, North Dakota

County Road West of Minot

These rolling hills seemed to go on forever.

Oil Country

Cyclists, beware. The stretch of highway between the North Dakota Border and Minot via Williston and New Town could easily be descrubed as the road from hell. With the exception of the preserved natural beauty of the Lewis and Clark State Park and a very pleasant stop at Keys Cove (both off Rte 1804), the route will take you through a landscape dotted with giant drills and mammoth 'donkey' oil pumping rigs, many of these setups belching huge burnoff flames that seem to come directly from the fires of Hades.  If the fumes and noise don't get you, the steady of stream of tankers, concrete mixers, and oversize semis carrying heavy equipment to service these monstrosities will. In some stretches oif 1804 and even worse, the infamous Rte 23 where there is no shoulder even the best truckers cannot avoid creating a destabilizing blast of wind that can blow you off the road.  Jean now has the scars to demonstrate this (leg gash and bruise on the bum as the result of being toppled by such a blast). In New Town, which is located on the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation, we were kindly hosted by the Three Affiliated Tribes and advised to take an alternate back route to Minot.  We were greatly relieved to pedal east out of Minot this morning to find that this area has not been 'blessed' with oil. The only sounds were those of birdsong and whispering wind.

Made in Cambodia

(Why is it that only this morning while putting on my high-tech Shimano bicycling shoes that I noticed where they were made?  Maybe it comes from thinking to the rhythm of the road day after day, but I started to imagine by whose hands. Thinking of Cambodia and its tragic recent history, the changes that have come to many poor countries along with globalization, this poem came to mind.)

Named for the moon,
her child-hands form perfect crescents,
fingers stretched into graceful pinwheels,
tracing celestial pathways, connecting constellations
in the lamplit shadows

Entangled in ageless karma,
her woman-hands repeat perfect stitches,
fingers spread across pliant leather forms,
feeding foreign markets, keeping economies humming
under the flourescent stare
of artificial suns

Discovering the High Plains

There are those who say there is nothing to see between the Rocky Mountains and the Mississippi River, but we have found that when you slow down to cycling speed on the 'hi-line' you experience an incredibly rich variety of natural beauty and deep wells of human history.  What's more, if you can deal with the wind and stay awhile, you will find that people are very willing to share their stories, their personal histories and perspectives. Some, like the story of the German immigrant Jacob Bauer and his lifelong romance with Mary Walks-With-the-Wind, you find on museum walls, others you find just by talking to people. We would like to extend special thanks to Bruce, Mary Lou and their whole extended family in Chinook, Montana for the warm welcome and great time we had playing the old songs and getting to know you. We also thank you for your concern for the children of Haiti. Here's hoping our paths will cross again.

Saco Dry Goods

Saco, Montana (population 145); June 3--- An abandoned dry goods store with traces of its 'Osh Kosh B'Gosh' slogan has been left to lean with the wind. Across the street, the old Ford auto garage no longer shows its logo. In the evening, people walk by these relics, leaving the overalls and spark plugs to yesterday, pass the old bank that was changed into an hotel, now a delapidated rooming house, and head to OD's saloon to join in the community barbeque. Norman Mavencamp saw us on the road and made certain we knew about it. Norman had supplied the meat. He runs each year in the senior Olympics. He is 86.

MJ

Eastern Montana shopping list

 Saco, Montana (all services)

 June 4, 2010