The Journeys We Take - Across the USA by Pedal Power

The Journeys We Take

(Across the USA by Pedal Power)

__________ 

“It demonstrates an elemental truth, that every breath you take has two possible endings.” 

Don DeLillo

__________

July 22, 2024: Headed for Glacier National Park, in a carefree mood.
I knew my wife was afraid bears might get me, so I thought she'd like this joke.

(My mood would soon.) 

CLICK ON ANY PICTURES TO EXPAND.

ONE UNFORTUNATE MEMORY from my third bicycle ride across the United States will always be the accident I witnessed on an otherwise beautiful July day, pedaling in the mountains of western Montana. 

I was churning up a long grade, heading north along Highway 89, aiming for Saint Mary, at the east entrance to Glacier National Park. I heard motorcycles approaching, but didn’t bother to look up. I was riding on a wide shoulder, almost as big as a regular traffic lane, such lanes being common in Montana, where populations are sparse, and traffic light, and slower-moving vehicles may want to slide over to let other drivers pass. The roar of the motorcycles sounded normal as several blew past. Then, a split second later, I was surprised to hear a motorcycle getting much closer, and glanced up just in time to see a rider shoot past, diagonally, in the wrong lane. 

“Holy shit!” I shouted, ineloquently. 

Then, in shock: “What the fuck!”

It happened so fast I can’t be sure whether the poor man and his motorcycle missed me by five feet or five yards. I was wearing a small rearview mirror attached to my glasses and could see a hundred-foot-long trail of dust rising off to the side of the highway, where the motorcycle had left the pavement at high speed and wiped out. I pulled up in shock, and then pedaled back, to see if I could help. 

Four or five more motorcycle riders had now stopped – friends of the crash victim, I assumed. By the time I reached the spot where the rider had gone down, another man, in black leather, helmet resting on right hip, was standing in high weeds, about fifty feet from the road. A maroon-colored motorcycle lay on its side. A detached and shattered headlight, and fragments of metal and plastic were scattered across a patch of dirt near a barbed wire fence. The fallen rider was hidden from view in the weeds, but the man standing over him was not kneeling to see how he was. 

I felt it would be ghoulish to intrude. So, I kept my distance, and asked another rider, stopped on the side of the road, if they had cell phones to call 911. You figure almost everyone does; but I wanted to be sure.

He said they did. 

“I hope your friend is okay,” I told him, and turned again, and pedaled off in the direction of Glacier National Park. 

It was – for me – still a beautiful day. 

About a mile down the road, I decided to call 911, to be sure. The dispatcher took my name and number, and I gave him an approximate location. “A little north of the big hairpin-turn, on Highway 89,” I explained. “I think the man is going to be badly hurt, at least. I’m sure he’ll need an ambulance.” 

Ten minutes later, as I pedaled along, a police car flew past, lights flashing blue, siren wailing woe. Two more emergency vehicles ripped past. Then I hit a long downhill stretch, steep enough that I had to clutch both brake levers, and several miles long, that took me into Saint Mary. I did a little grocery shopping (apples, cheder cheese hotdogs, energy bars, and Gatorade), bought sunscreen, because I had been getting burned on arms and face, left my credit card with the clerk by mistake, and had to go back, and finally settled on a bench outside a log cabin-style store for a rest. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Death had just brushed past. 

 

*

__________ 

“I feel like a fugitive from the law of averages.” 

Bill Mauldin

__________

 

THAT MORNING, I had risen from bed in a tent hidden in tall grass, behind a screen of bushes, just off Highway 89, outside Browning, Montana. I was “stealth camping,” something most cross-country riders are happy to do. Simply put, you make your own campsites for free. I could smell mint, where I had trampled the wild plants, and the sky was cloudless, a brilliant “pilot-light blue,” as David Foster Wallace once wrote. The day had dawned, crisp and cool. 

Somewhere to the north, the motorcyclist who would crash had risen, dressed, and headed for breakfast with friends. Back east, my wife in Cincinnati, two time zones ahead, would be enjoying her coffee, and reading the newspaper, a morning ritual for people our age. Sky, the young woman I had passed, pedaling east six days back, might already be in the saddle. She was riding solo across the USA, daring like me, but a third my age. I would estimate she was somewhere near the middle of North Dakota. Tory and Mia Bossen, the 11-year-old twins with type-1 diabetes I had met in Stanford, Montana, might also be stirring. The captain of the ferry that carried Zack Pedersen and Cameron Crane, two riders on recumbent bicycles, and me, across Lake Michigan would have left Ludington Harbor, headed for Manitowoc, Wisconsin. The S.S. Badger was likely halfway across the lake. If weather in New York was cooperative, Jack Lynch, 94, a gentleman I met out for a short ride one day, might be getting his exercise. I had told him he was my new role model, and I would endeavor to keep pedaling for years to come. In Lewiston, Maine, where I had spent a night in an expensive hotel – because I wanted to duck pouring rain – the guests might be sitting down at the free breakfast buffet. The hotel worker who told me about the mass shooting in Lewiston that occurred the previous October would be wiping off tables again. And in eighteen homes scattered across that city, families would still be mourning the dead. 

I met the Bossen family in Stanford, Montana.
(Mike and Sandy with the girls, Mia and Tory.)

In the weeds, I dropped my tent and packed up my gear. Since I was worried that I might be on the edge of bear country, I had placed my saddle bags containing food and toiletries a hundred yards away, along a fence line. 

I had twenty-seven miles to go, to reach Glacier, where I hoped to spend four days, and then pedal ten more. My plan was to dip my front tire in the Pacific, not far from Seattle, and, finally, fly home. 

Now, four hours later, my mood had changed. 

Six miles to shore.

I TAUGHT history for three decades, so I knew well that day, how the vagaries of chance shape every human life.

In 1476, for instance, a young Genoese sailor aboard an armed merchant vessel, the Bechalla, part of a five-vessel fleet, was caught up in a battle at sea when the Genoese were attacked by a Franco-Portuguese force of thirteen ships. Combat raged for hours, and by nightfall three Genoese ships had been sunk. 

When the Bechalla went down, that sailor “leaped into the sea, grasped a sweep that floated free, and by pushing it ahead of him and resting on it when he was exhausted (for he had been wounded in the battle) he managed to reach the shore, over six miles distant.” If young Christopher Columbus sinks beneath the waves that fateful day, not one of “us” in America today would be here, but hundreds of millions of “others,” possibly descendants of indigenous peoples not killed by smallpox, measles, and influenza, would. 

I was 75 years old on the day I saw that poor motorcyclist go flying off the side of Highway 89. I understood, in part because I’m old, that Death often nudges our elbow. Bill Mauldin, who served with the U.S. Army during World War II, and captured the experiences of “dog faces” in combat in gritty cartoons, once joked, “I feel like a fugitive from the law of averages. And with each passing year I knew. The law of averages was catching up with me, and many of the people I love most. 

My younger brother Ned, born only fourteen months after me, said before my first cross-country ride in 2007, that he considered riding a bicycle like “Russian roulette, only with more cylinders.” 

He was correct, of course. In my case, I’d already crashed my bicycle twice and ended up in a hospital both times. 

I had also “survived” twenty-one months in the Marines, December 28, 1968, to September 30, 1970. And twice, during the summer of 1969, I had volunteered to go to Vietnam. But, dumb luck, for the dumb corporal, I wasn’t sent. 

Columbus would understand what my brother meant.

In the summer of 1972, the Fates smiled on me again, during a three a.m.-75-mph-roll-over-wreck on Interstate 71. I was driving back from Cincinnati after my first date with my first wife, heading for Akron, Ohio. Another driver fell asleep at the wheel (I assume), just as I tried to pass, coasted three feet over into my lane, and ran me off onto the median strip.  As soon as my front driver’s side wheel dug into the grass, my car turned broadside and then cartwheeled, but Mr. Sleepy didn’t trouble to stop – and I hope his failure has haunted him, a little, ever since. The first good Samaritan on the scene, a trucker who had been heading south, found me already out of my smashed car, and momentarily disoriented, for obvious reasons. 

“Buddy, I didn’t think anyone would survive that wreck,” he said. “You must have flipped eight times.” 

I was wearing a seatbelt before that was cool, before the federal government even thought to require belts in new cars. Instead of being ejected, when my 1968 Ford Torino rolled, or getting crushed when the driver’s side door ended up bent up and over, onto the flattened roof, I suffered nothing worse than a knock to the head. Oddly enough, the forces of the wreck caused my bell-bottom pants to split wide open in back.

My mother was a devout Catholic and carried a rosary around in an apron pocket when she cooked – which was every day – to remind her to say her prayers whenever there was time. When the Ohio Highway Patrol took me to their nearest post, in Mansfield, and let me call home in the middle of the night, I knew she’d come to my aid. When I explained that I would need a lift home, and why, she and my father, who went to church once a year, on Christmas Eve, and promptly fell asleep, agreed to dress and pick me up. 

On the way home, in the dawn hours of a new day, she told me, “I think the fact I was praying, is why you weren’t hurt.”

I responded, “Well, I wish you had prayed for my car, because it’s a total wreck. And for my pants.” 

Not for the first time, I had ducked the law of averages, as almost all of us do, even if we don’t realize it every day. Ned had dodged more bullets while hitchhiking, after an attempted robbery, than I did in the Marines. My older brother, Tim, had served in combat during the Vietnam War, even though he didn’t want to be sent. And we had been the lucky ones, out of my mother’s eleven pregnancies. 

Eight had ended in miscarriage. 

The law of averages being neither “fair,” or “unfair,” but only an inexplicable average, that is both.

I imagine that every human being on earth eventually learns that some cylinders are loaded, and the older you are, the more loaded cylinders become the central feature of the game. Every one of us born on this planet, past, present, and to come, Israeli, Palestinian, Ukrainian, Russian, Iranian, Sudanese, trans American kid, Haitian immigrant in Springfield, Ohio, supposedly “eating the pets,” MAGA loyalist struggling to pay rising grocery costs, and Donald J. Trump, himself, at a rally in Butler, Pennsylvania, is playing Russian roulette every day of his, or her, or “they” lives. 

If the Fates stalk us all, I couldn’t stop wondering, “How should we conduct ourselves, knowing this is true?” 

My mother, were she still alive, would have no doubt. “Well, you should pray,” I know she’d say. 

Who knows? I guess it can’t hurt.

* 

__________ 

“Even a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.” 

Chinese proverb

__________   

 

THAT PROVERB may now be a cliché. Still, it’s true, in spirit. So, let’s begin at the beginning, with a first “swim.” 

From the moment of conception, as we launch upon our individual journeys, we are already beating incredible odds, having dodged hundreds of millions of loaded cylinders, in the form of all those competing sperm. The odds of our personal conceptions occurring are daunting. If our parents argue earlier that day, no sex that night. 

“We” have zero chance of being born, but Brother Buster is conceived the next morning, during makeup sex. 

Buster gets the crib that was meant for “me” – or “you” – and goes on to be the black sheep of the family flock and ends up in jailed for mail fraud.

You could call it a miracle that any of us are here at all. Scientists have widely varying estimates, but a typical male ejaculation delivers 80 to 300 million sperm. At the starting gun, off they go, like Kentucky Derby thoroughbreds in the “Run for the Roses,” dreaming of being first to the fertilizing Finish Line.

Enjoy this day. That’s what I’m saying. Your personal little sperm was like a Triple Crown winner. 

 

Loaded cylinders and staple guns.

BY THE SPRING of 2024, I had already enjoyed sixteen years of retirement, after a teaching career during which I worked with 5,000 seventh and eighth grade students. I have always said I couldn’t name five I didn’t like, and that would include the troubled young man who brought a pistol to school to shoot me and at least one of his peers. That other target and I dodged two loaded cylinders that day, and the boy inclined to mayhem, who had a good heart, never pulled his weapon from his bookbag, though he had it in school an entire day. A few years later, the young man pulled a gun on himself and committed suicide, a heart-rending result for all who loved him, including his father, whom I had met. 

Before that, I had volunteered and joined the Marines, because I wanted a challenge, and got it at Parris Island. But most of my time in the Corps was spent behind a desk, at Camp Pendleton, California. I was a supply clerk, just about the least heroic service a young man could perform. 

I used to joke with students, “I guarded America with my staple gun!”

They would scoff, and I would pick up my trusty stapler from my desk and wave it in gung-ho fashion. Sometimes I would fire a few staples at doubters. 

“Laugh all you want,” I would say, “but how many Viet Cong landed on the San Clemente beaches while I was on alert?” 

After a moment of silence, I would add, “Yeah. None!” 

So, by the time I took my first long ride in 1999, I had already defeated long odds. If you are reading this, so have you; and we dodge another loaded cylinder every time we rise in the morning and take another step along the way. If nothing else, then, we should try to appreciate the journey.

Camp Pendleton, 1969.
I think this would have made a great recruiting picture.

CLICK ON ANY PICTURES TO EXPAND.

The year I turned fifty, my oldest daughter, Abby, and Alex, her future husband, dropped me off in the middle of Yellowstone National Park, with the plan being that I would cycle back to Cincinnati. I will never forget pedaling up the winding highway, past Mount Washburn, and thinking, “I’m really going to do this! On the back side of that mountain, you fly downhill for fourteen miles, clamping down hard on your brake levers with both hands – an exhilarating experience you cannot find anywhere in Ohio. That whole trip was a thrill – even if I did just miss getting swept away in a tornado, near Valentine, Nebraska.

An empty cylinder again.

In 2005, Emily, my youngest daughter, then 14, landed on a loaded cylinder, and ended up with type-1 diabetes. So, in 2007, at age 58, I set about raising money for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation and pedaled coast-to-coast, from Avalon, New Jersey to Bay City, Oregon. My students and their families helped me raise $13,500, a story I have told before.

Four years later, I did a similar ride, for the same good cause. This time, I started in Acadia National Park and finished in San Francisco. 

Here, the calendar flips to “2024.” I understand that I am aging. I can see the proof in any mirror I look. 

Or, as Shakespeare wrote, “We ripe and rot.” 

I find myself thinking, “Why not do it again? Why not pedal across the United States a third time?”

“And thereby hangs a tale.” 

CLICK ON ANY PICTURES TO EXPAND.

Emily, about the time she developed type-1 diabetes.

The view from Mt. Washburn, in Yellowstone.
I started my ride in 1999 at Canyon Village, three miles south.
That's my son-in-law Alex Donaldson, during a 2020 hike.

Dead Indian Pass - heading for Cody, Wyoming.
Picture from my 1999 ride.

Two young travelers I met in Kansas, who were pedaling east, during my 2007 ride.

"Stealth camping," near Leadville, Colorado.
Elevation: 10,151 feet above sea level.
A great morning to be alive - 2007.

Maybe we should remember: Every morning is.

These two lovely waitresses in Idaho heard I was riding for JDRF,
and happily donated. A lesson repeated again and again:
The kindness of people - 2007.

I started my second trip across the USA, in 2011, at Acadia National Park.
Picture atop Cadillac Mountain, overlooking the Atlantic.

The scene of my arrest - as a bank robbery suspect
in Wayne County, Indiana, during my 2011 ride.

You can read about that incident in "Clyde Barrow on a Bike."

I met Rick Arnett, pedaling along the Loneliest Highway in America.
That's in Nevada, if you don't know - 2011.

Tioga Pass, leading into Yosemite National Park.
The white dot on the road, above my handlebars, is a large RV.
Near the end of my 2011 trip.

July 22, 2024. Glacier National Park.
Third attempt to ride across the USA.

That line you see is Going to the Sun Highway: July 23, 2024.
This 51-mile road is epic on a bike.

***

__________ 

“The morning was like a slate clean for any future.” 

Truman Capote

__________

APRIL 5, 2024: I turn 75, but I don’t really feel that old. Old, yes, but not that old. And I have a plan. 

My wife doesn’t think it’s a good plan, but she’s a good wife. After a little prodding, and little pouting by me, she agrees. I can pedal across the United States one more. 

Age is just a number, right? Well, sure, but now it’s a high number! 

Throw in a bad right knee (thanks to the Marine Corps), a bad left wrist (from crash landing during a basketball game), and a bad left Achilles tendon (which will develop during this ride), and what could go wrong? 

As usual, I will ride in honor of my daughter Emily, and others, some recently diagnosed with type-1 diabetes. 

Others have battled the disease for more than fifty years.

Here’s a link, if you’d like to donate.

That's my wife Anne. She lets me pedal away on my adventures.
She's in better shape than me, but she's not a cyclist.

Emily now has twin boys: Story, left, and Prosper, right.

Audrey Lake (right) and I taught together for years,
and she never complained about being type-1.
She's been meeting the challenge for 62 years.
(Daughter Kim, left.)

Lilly Banks had been diagnosed only 200 days before.
She's a real ballplayer and health challenges
don't stop her from playing the game she loves.

Lily Kniskern, right, and sister Becca, left.
Lily developed Type-1 diabetes at 14.
Becca was diagnosed with cancer at age two, and again at four.

Pattie Spicher, seen here with two of her grandkids.
She's the wife of my high school friend, Ray.
She was first diagnosed in 1970.

CLICK ON ANY PICTURES TO EXPAND.

__________ 

“They can because they think they can.”

Virgil

__________ 

YOU COULD CALL ME AN OPTIMIST because I believe that if I hop on my bicycle and start pedaling, I will almost always end up someplace good. I also believe that Virgil was right, in the Aeneid, when he described watching the crews of two boats racing. One crew of rowers fell far behind. Yet, the trailing crew did not give up and slowly began to close the gap. As the vessels closed on the finish line, Virgil knew, the men in the second boat would need to give one last push. 

Could they win? 

Virgil was clear: “They can because they think they can,” he wrote. They would have to reach down for some last reserve of strength and did. With a final, exhausting surge, they shot ahead, crossing the finish line just inches ahead of the other craft. 

I believe Virgil was right. So, I expect to make it, coast-to-coast myself, at 75, and cross the finish line. “I can because I think I can,” in other words. 

But for this trip my planning was a little shaky. 

Hubris, I suppose. 

If you’ve never been to Acadia National Park, make a point to visit before your travels take you over the rainbow and off to heaven (we hope). 

Unfortunately, optimism doesn’t make up for ignorance. I rented a car, drove to Acadia, dropped it off at a Hertz outlet just outside the park, and started my ride on April 30. My first challenge was to pedal up Cadillac Mountain, rising 1,550 feet, and overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. I chose the same starting place in 2011 but began that journey on a sunny day in June. When I went up the mountain at age 62, I did it without stops. This time, at 75, after less than half a mile, I had to regroup. “What made you think you could do this at your age?” I wondered. 

Had I fooled myself? 

Fortunately, the steepest section was the first, and the grade flattened a little, and it was a beautiful day. I only had to stop once more, and at the top, I felt surprisingly good. As it turned out, it would take twenty-one days to pedal back to Cincinnati, on the first leg of my trip, and I would be rained on all but four. It was often cold and wet, and I pedaled through multiple downpours.

Here’s a link, if you’d like to donate to Breakthrough T1D.

At the top of Cadillac Mountain, Maine. April 30, 2024. Temperature in the 40s.

My granddaughter Ellora gave me this motivational note.
She told me not to open it until the first day of my ride.

Pedaling past The College of the Atlantic, I noticed a protest camp.
I stopped to talk to the students - idealistic, as the young often are.
(I felt equal sorrow for Palestinians and Israelis locked in a grinding war.)

Most of the students were reluctant to have their pictures taken,
fearing retribution. This young man was Palestinian,
and told me about his family back home.

“Hello, Noah!” 

IF THE WEATHER wasn’t great, what else could go wrong, when optimism was the only plan? Did you know that there are almost no campgrounds open in Maine, during the first half of May? This dope did not. I mostly camp on long rides but stop at motels and hotels every third or fourth day. Now the rain made it impossible to make the mileage I had hoped. On May 2, I stopped after only 32 miles, because it wasn’t safe to ride. Two days later, I did 41 miles, but again, heavy rain forced me to quit and find shelter. 

I'm happy to do "stealth camping" on my trips.
That means making your own spots in the woods.

View from my tent on a drizzling morning in Maine.

When you meet people on the road, and they learn about 
your cause, they often donate, because people are good.
Molly and Ed Hamel donated $50.

Another rainy morning in Augusta, Maine.
Waiting out the storm at a motel.

One unexpected pleasure was having a chance to stay at my cousin Phil Kearnan's
cabin in New Hampshire. Phil and his wife Maureen
caught me up on family history and provided dinner and a soft bed.

View from their cabin.

It poured again on the fifth, and I had to seek shelter after only 25 miles. I started thinking I might see The Ark. 

“Hello, Noah,” I imagined greeting the captain of the ship. “How are the aardvarks doing? Do the zebras ever get seasick? How is Mrs. Noah? And the kids?”

(Hint to bicyclists planning to ride across the USA: Do not start in April in Maine. Unless you are a duck.)

I had pedaled west from Acadia, across New Hampshire, and had enjoyed going up and over Kancamagus Pass in 2011. Now the plan was to do it again. For the first 21 miles, the road over the pass rises gradually, and then for five or six more, it’s steep, and a punishing grind, at least for a rider my age. At the top, however, you see a sign warning truckers of a 9% downhill grade for several miles. It was cloudy again, and chilly that day, but on a sunny day, as in 2011, I can tell you that the Swift River, running beside the road, is beautiful, and in summer perfect for a swim.

Sign at the bottom of Kancamagus Pass. 
Moose can't scare me! I was a Marine!

What goes up, must come down.
At the top of Kancamagus Pass.

A nice family took my picture at a stop along the Swift River.
When they heard I was pedaling across the country, the mom said,
"Wow, we don't meet many athletes like you!"

"That's kind of stretching the definition of 'athlete,'" I said.

Chris Poliquin flew past me on the downhill side of the pass.
I didn't think I'd see her again, but she was stopped at the bottom
and we had a good talk. She told me she was 45, but still a competitive cyclist.

I told her that when I grew, females, young or old, would have been told,
"Stay home and cook. Hard exercise isn't ladylike."
Options for journeys were circumscribed.

That afternoon, I had an awesome meal at Black Mountain Burger, in Lincoln – and after a young couple at another table asked me about my trip and then recommended the caramel brownie sundae – I decided to treat myself and burn off the calories the next day. I thought about taking a room in one of the motels, but prices were steep, and I was cheap. I decided to push on a few miles, and once again camped in the woods near a rushing stream. 

Free. 

The next morning, a Sunday, I rose refreshed, but made a miscalculation on directions, and had to make a long, hard climb up over a mountain on New Hampshire 112, in that area called “Lost River Road.” I don’t know how much elevation I gained, but at the highest point, I passed the Beaverbrook Trail Head, which would lead to Mt. Moosilauke, a mile away. That would put you at an elevation of 4,802 feet. When I stopped to catch my breath at the top of the pass, around 9 a.m., it was overcast and cold, and a ferocious wind was howling, and even my hands got numb. 

I was mumbling curses again (a skill I acquired during my time in the Marines) and questioning my judgment regarding the wisdom of attempting this trip, when I got to enjoy a long, swift descent. I had burned up all those caramel brownie sundae calories and was getting worried about where I would find breakfast, when – serendipity. 

Flying around a bend, I spied a grocery store/gas station only a hundred yards ahead, off to the right side of the road. And not just “a” grocery store. It turned out the Swiftwater Way Station was the #1-rated independent grocery in the state. The décor included a stuffed bear, and the breakfast sandwiches, egg, cheese, and bacon, would put all the Waffle Houses and McDonalds in America to shame. The owners, Franco and Phil, told me they were running a hunting contest, and I enjoyed watching Phil add names to a chart he was keeping, as hunters came in to get their turkeys weighed. Franco introduced me to his son, Franco Jr., and told me how he came to be half-owner of the Station. He had lived in Boston much of his life, but wanted a more relaxed lifestyle, and was justly proud of the business he had built, here in the mountains, far Fenway Park.

I wondered if Franco Jr. enjoyed this new life, and he assured me he did. It was also clear he was proud of his dad, and himself, for the help he could give. Then Franco Sr. suggested I try a breakfast wrap based on his grandmother’s recipe. I had already polished off two excellent sandwiches, however. So, I thanked them all for their hospitality, and pedaled away, completely refreshed.

I swear, if I’m ever in the area again, I am stopping for breakfast, again.

Swiftwater Way Station.

Tyler took the lead with this 21.5 pound bird.
His wife Sam said she expected to get her turkey next week.

Franco Jr. and Franco Sr.
(You should stop in!)

The Cornish-Windsor Bridge, between New Hampshire and Vermont.
Said to be the longest wooden bridge in this country.
Built in 1866, for $9,000.

A sight you never want to see: I snapped my chain
trying to stand on my pedals and complete a steep climb.
A $51 dollar Uber ride got me to a bicycle shop
in Brattleboro, Vermont.

CLICK ON ANY PICTURES TO EXPAND.

The weather was a little better by the time I hit Vermont; but it was still wet enough for me to alter my route. Near Dover, one morning, I got up early and had to immediately go up a steep mountain – and I just couldn’t do it. I had to walk part of the way. That had never happened on any of my other trips – and I was feeling bad – and then I was feeling worse when rain came pelting down. 

I took shelter under an awning at the Dover Free Library. When the librarian showed up to open, I asked if I could use the bathroom. 

She delivered a curt, “No.” 

I assume she mistook me for a bedraggled, dripping-wet hobo, and didn’t trust me not to steal some books. 

I find these roadside memorials touching.
Fate comes for many of us before our time.
Near Dover, Vermont.

When the rain abated, I enjoyed a great downhill coast to Wilmington, Vermont, and a rejuvenating breakfast at Wahoo’s Restaurant. One of the locals, seated at an old-fashioned Formica lunch counter, shaped like a horseshoe, heard where I was headed and said, “You’re going to have to go uphill for the next eleven miles. Then you’ll get a great ride into Bennington, all downhill.”

He offered to give me a lift to the top. I was tempted, but there’s no sense trying to pedal across the country, if you’re going to wimp out every time it’s hard and hitch a ride. Sure enough, up I went for several miles – and then down I flew into Bennington, feeling like a young man. 

Like I was 65! 

Not far from Bennington, I hit the New York State line. My plan from there was to follow the Erie Canal Trailway and pedal the next 300 miles almost entirely off the roads. The weather was better, although it did sprinkle most days, and the sun still wasn’t out nearly as much as I had hoped.  

Several key battles in the American Revolution were fought at or near Bennington.
At Saratoga, in 1777, an entire invading British and Hessian army had to surrender. 

Church in Bennington, Vermont, built in 1751.
The Puritans once dominated New England.
Today the region is the least religious part of the USA.

Witch burning is definitely out of favor.

Now many women today would want to be named "Submit."

Vermont scene - looking in the direction of the Connecticut River Valley.

__________ 

A land “full of wild beasts and wild men.” 

William Bradford

__________ 

 

IF YOUR HISTORY TEACHER in high school or middle school was always rushing to include all the material he or she was expected to cover, you probably haven’t heard much about the Battle of Bennington – which the Americans won, and the British and Hessians lost – or the founding of the town, or even the Puritan colonists who so dramatically shaped the face of New England. 

True. You probably learned about the Pilgrims, and that tiny group of settlers did leave a lasting mark. 

There’s that cliché, about, “Every journey begins with the first step.” And it is true. We should get going, set out in pursuit of our goals. We shouldn’t forget, however, that many journeys begin in terror. Not “journey,” but “flight.” The Pilgrims believed the Church of England was hopelessly corrupt and were determined to “separate” themselves from practice of the king’s religion. 

Like any religious group of that era, and many today, the Pilgrims believed they were on the true and narrow path to heaven. John Robinson, one of their leaders, spoke of receiving the word of Jesus in his heart like “burning fire.” A young believer promised his parents he would keep the faith despite all danger. “I am not only willing to part with everything that is dear to me in this world,” he explained. “I am also thankful that God has given me a heart to do so.” Government pressure eventually forced many of the “Separatists,” as such people were known, to flee to Holland in 1608, where religious freedom was closer to the rule, and they remained in exile for twelve years. 

In 1620, the Pilgrims left England forever, boarded the Mayflower, and a second ship, the inaptly named Speedwell, and set sail. In that era, Christians were busily engaged in wiping each other off the face of the map. The Thirty Years War, which began in 1618, pitted Lutheran against Catholic, and would end with a third of the German population extinguished. English Catholics spent decades battling upstart Protestant sects. Then control passed to Henry VIII, who wanted a divorce which was not allowed according to Catholic dogma. He solved his romantic dilemma by creating the Church of England and promptly set to work battling other Protestant groups. 

And the Catholics, of course. 

As for the Pilgrims, their voyage to American proved arduous, with the Speedwell leaking so badly that the vessel was finally forced to turn back. The Mayflower, now much delayed, went on alone, with 102 passengers. Five died during the trip, and a giant wave swept a fellow named John Howland off the deck and into the slate gray ocean. The “hand of God” held him up, Howland claimed, and he grabbed a rope trailing the ship. Frantic cries for help brought others to the rescue. 

As always, journeys end well for some, not for others, and no rhyme or reason why. Long delays spent trying to repair the Speedwell meant the Pilgrims reached America in November, and they would be decimated during their first winter in the new land. But the 55 who survived would leave an indelible mark. An estimated 10,000,000 Americans today trace ancestry back to those few dozen settlers, including the Howland children, who excelled in my history class in the 80s. Edward Dotey, a servant, who came to America – but was not a Separatist – proved troublesome during the voyage, and again after the Mayflower made landfall. After yet another outburst, Dotey was tied, “neck and heels,” as punishment. His back bowed, heels not far from the back of his head, with a rope round his throat, when he tried to straighten, the rope cut off his air. Dotey survived, and Martin Dowty, who grew up on a farm in Wisconsin, and earned a PhD, lived across the street from our family in Glendale, Ohio, and could trace his lineage back to that unruly servant. He and his wife Heather have two grown children of their own and so the chain of human events continues to lengthen and play out. 

By the time the Pilgrims arrived off Cape Cod, a foot of snow blanketed the ground. William Bradford, later governor, described the gloomy scene. “They had no friends to welcome them,” he explained, and nowhere to turn for comfort. Nothing but wilderness stretched in front of them.  

It was a land “full of wild beasts and wild men.”   

Not the typical image of the Pilgrims most of us are taught.
Returning from a fight with a dangerous neighboring tribe.

The first winter in America proved to be a brutal battle for survival; and frankly, the Native Americans blew their best chance. Pilgrim scouting parties sent down the coast faced bitter cold and heavy seas, till men were covered in a glaze of ice. The colonists discovered a new type of shellfish, ate their fill, and became violently ill. (As one survivor put it, “We did cast and scour.”) Cruel weather slowed efforts to construct shelter. Sickness took a terrible toll. Pneumonia, tuberculosis and scurvy were the biggest killers. Bradford described the Pilgrim’s lowest point:

 

That which was most sad...was that in 2 or 3 months time half of their company had died, especially in Jan. and February, being in the depth of winter, and lacking houses and other comforts...There died some times 2 or 3 of a day ... that of 100 and odd persons, hardly 50 remained. And of these in times of most distress, there was but 6 or 7 sound persons.

 

 

By winter’s end it seemed likely the colony would not survive. Four families had been wiped out. Most of the women were dead, including William’s wife, who had fallen (or jumped) off Mayflower and drowned. If the Indians had made the choice to attack the English would have had almost no chance, and the journey of the indigenous peoples of Massachusetts might have ended far more favorably if they had. The Pilgrims knew it, too, and buried their dead in secret. Then they planted seeds over the graves and prayed the “wild men” would not discover their weakness. 

At first, the original inhabitants of the land were rarely seen. A plague, probably an outbreak of smallpox carried to these shores by English fishing vessels, had swept the coast in 1616 or 1617, in a sense opening a way for the English. Thousands had died, the natives, as Bradford later wrote, “not being able to bury one another. Their skulls and bones, were found in many places lying still above the ground, where their houses ... had been; a very sad spectacle to behold.” 

On one occasion two dark-skinned warriors stood on a nearby hill, overlooking Plymouth. They rubbed their bow strings and touched the points of their arrows, as if to say, “Look out! We’ll get you!” Then they shouted and made rude gestures which one Englishman called “plainly obscene.” The record is unclear: but the original Americans apparently “mooned” the newcomers. 

The Pilgrims knew no more what to expect of the future than any of us today, but luck was on their side. One day a warrior named Samoset stepped out of the forest shadows and approached the settlement. Naked, except for a piece of leather round his waist, his appearance astonished the English. Yet, despite the bow and arrows he carried, it was clear he came in peace. Walking slowly, he called out to the settlers in good English: “Welcome!” Then he asked for beer. 

Through Samoset, the Pilgrims met Squanto, who had once been captured by white explorers. Carried back to England, he had learned the language before returning to America in 1614. Kidnapped a second time, he was sold as a slave. Again, he regained his freedom, returning home shortly before the Pilgrims landed. Why Squanto chose to trust the newcomers we will never know. Yet he proved friendly from the start. He showed the English where to catch lobster and brought them fish eggs to eat. In the spring, he taught them how to raise corn, using fish as fertilizer. Finally, in dealing with other natives, he served as interpreter. Bradford described him as “a special instrument sent by God.” 

It was through Squanto that the Pilgrims were introduced to Massasoit, powerful leader of the Wampanoag tribe, ruler of the lands surrounding Plymouth Bay. The great sachem arrived at the settlement one day, followed by sixty warriors. All were tall, powerfully built, and carefully painted. Some had white faces, some black, some red, some yellow, with designs all over their bodies. 

Massasoit was “sparing of speech,” a man of dignity, and, luckily for the English, anxious to finalize a treaty of peace. His people had been hard hit by the plague which swept the coast. Now they hoped the colonists might aid them in defeating their powerful neighbors. The Narragansett tribe, their bitter rivals, had been relatively untouched by the disease, and Massasoit needed help from the Pilgrims with their impressive cannon and muskets. Having agreed to a treaty, Massasoit kept his word for half a century, although it would be broken by his son, during “King Philips War.” 

The sachem, with ninety followers, attended the first Thanksgiving dinner in the fall of 1621. The red guests brought venison from five deer. Their white hosts provided roast duck and goose, fresh bread and wine. Together they celebrated and feasted for three days. There were foot races and games of shooting skill and much fun, generally. Turkey is not mentioned by any eyewitness.

 

So: Blind luck saved John Howland and Edward Dotey, and the Pilgrims. Or at least half of their band. 

Or was it “the hand God?” 

 

A “Bible Commonwealth.” 

HAD THE TRIBES of the region united in 1620 or 1621, they had been wise to have rubbed out the English foothold while they had a chance. A decade later, a much larger force of English arrived, in seventeen ships, including John, age 13, the first member of the Viall family to set foot in America. In England, these settlers, the “Puritans,” had insisted that the Church of England must be purified. It must be cleansed of all vestiges of Catholic taint. This was an era when religious disputes were often settled by application of thumbscrews, or time on the rack. And if you wanted to win a religious debate, you sent your foes to the gallows and that put an end to the dispute. Leaders of the Church of England, and the kings and queens of that era, took a dim view of these fractious folk, and, finally, the Puritans, like the Pilgrims, were forced to flee. 

Once settled in Massachusetts, and later having spread across New England, the Puritans founded a “Bible Commonwealth.” That is: they based their government on religion. We can rarely know what our ancestors were thinking, but the original John Viall, and his neighbors were not know for tolerating dissent. When a handful of members of the Society of Friends, or “Quakers,” arrived, they were treated harshly when they insisted on preaching. In one case four “Friends” were tied to a cart, whipped, and driven through twelve towns, bloody and battered. Another was burned deeply “with a red-hot iron.” Cassandra Southwick, a Quaker leader, had her children taken from her and sold like slaves. Mary Dyer spoke up on several occasions. At last, on June 1, 1660, in Boston, she was hanged for her crimes, her skirt blowing in the wind “like a flag.” 

Jews and Catholics were, of course, unwelcome in the New England colonies, and Baptists were not treated much better. When they refused to adhere to Puritan beliefs, regarding the proper time for baptism (infancy) they were arrested. Obadiah Holmes was sentenced to be struck thirty times with a three-corded whip, the same punishment as for rape. Deeply religious himself, Holmes insisted he withstood the pain easily, with God’s help. When it was over and his back covered in blood he told the jailer, “You have struck me as with roses.” When a few spectators spoke to him kindly, they too were arrested. Free speech? Not yet an established concept. 

In all matters, down to the smallest details, the Bible was basis for Puritan government. According to the Old Testament, slavery was allowed, so, in 1686, when the second John Viall died, he owned six slaves, as noted in his Last Will. In New Haven, Connecticut trial by jury was done away. No mention of it is found in the Holy Book. The celebration of Christmas was banned for the same reason. Lying and cursing were criminal offenses. In Puritan dominions, those who questioned the truth of the Bible could be branded or have their tongues bored with a red-hot iron. A second offense meant hanging. Even questions as simple as the legal size of a barrel of beer were based on instructions in the Good Book. The Bible warns, also: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” The Puritans took that admonition seriously, most famously at Salem, Massachusetts in 1692. At the same time, laws were enacted, based on a passage in Leviticus, that held that children over the age of sixteen “who shall beat or curse their father or mother shall be put to death without mercy.” 

Puritan punishments could be cruel or creative, sometimes both. Sinners might be forced to attend church dressed in rags and smeared with dirt. They might be ordered to stand before the congregation, in Sunday services typically lasting for hours, wearing signs describing their misdeeds. Others were forced to crawl before the minister and beg forgiveness. After 1677, Boston caged individuals in the town square for minor offenses, to make an example. A baker who cheated customers was sent to the stocks and locked up with a lump of dough on his head. Those found drunk might be sentenced to wear the letter “D” on their clothing. Burglars had ears “cropped” or cut off and were branded with a “B” on the forehead. And, of course, you had the famous “scarlet A.” From such practices comes the saying: “You must follow the letter of the law.”

 

With the Bible as guide, the Puritans ruled that Sunday be a day of absolute rest. Even cooking was banned. Families often ate cold baked beans prepared the day before. One fellow was fined for picking strawberries on the Sabbath, another for sailing a boat. Connecticut passed a law making it illegal to cut hair, shave, make beds, or travel (except to church), or for a woman to kiss her children on this holy day. In 1670, John Lewis and Sarah Chapman were arrested, for “sitting together on the Lord’s Day under an apple tree.” Captain John Underhill was arrested and charged with staring at Miriam Wilborne during church. 

When Underhill admitted that Wilborne was a “desirable woman” the judge found him guilty and levied a fine. 

In fact, the same strict code applied to matters of sex. If an unmarried couple had relations the man could be fined or whipped. He could lose voting rights, a privilege limited to male members of the church to begin, and be required to marry the girl. “Gay rights” were unknown. Homosexual behavior also meant execution. Even adultery was punishable by death. We know of at least three cases where execution resulted. As late as 1743, Nathaniel Richards and Sarah Leffingwell, wife of Samuel Leffingwell, were punished for their misdeeds. Richards was given twenty-five lashes, branded with an “A” on the forehead, and had a heavy collar fastened on his neck. Mrs. Leffingwell endured similar punishments, except for the whipping.  

Yet, the Puritans thrived, and shaped the culture of New England, and our great nation, and their descendants mixed with waves of immigrants, French-Canadians coming south for better job prospects, the Irish fleeing starvation during the Potato Famine, and Italians looking for work in the textile mills that once dominated the region. Journeys intertwined, journeys of all new kinds. 

As for the indigenous people, they faded away, slaughtered in bloody wars, always susceptible to European disease. 

They should have stomped the Pilgrims when they had a chance. 

__________ 

“You can do more than you think.”

Bruce Closser

__________

AS HAS BEEN TRUE on every one of these kinds of trips, I greatly enjoyed the people I met and talked to along the way. I ran into two delightful Canadian riders, Markos McFerrin and Haley Mowat. They were heading for Washington D.C. and going in the opposite direction. We camped under a shelter house roof, and I treated them to pizza from a nearby shop – and during the night it rained again. 

Markos and his family had bicycled extensively in Europe, and he and Haley had pedaled together through the Cascade Mountains. She laughed and told me that it had been her first experience battling long climbs and she wasn’t shifting effectively and started to cry. I told her not to feel bad. I don’t cry. I curse. The longest climb I’ve ever done, in 2011, was up and over Powder River Pass, out of Buffalo, Wyoming, a 33-mile-climb and a mile of elevation gained. I’m not really that strong a rider, and it took seven hours to reach the top. Thirty miles down the other side required about 45 minutes. 

My plan, once I hit New York, was to ride the Erie Canal Trailway, which worked out well. One afternoon, I met Jack Lynch, a local rider, pedaling a few miles at age 94. He said he still rode four or five times a week and urged me to stop and eat at Lorenzo’s in Amsterdam, right off the trail. I’m glad I took his advice. 

I was sorry that when I passed by Seneca Falls on a Sunday the Women’s Rights Museum was closed. It was there, in 1848, that the real battle for equal rights for half the population in this country began. 

That was a journey of great consequence for all.

Elizabeth Cady Stanton, in later life.
She was one of the organizers of the Seneca Falls meeting.

The only real problem I had in New York involved getting lost in cities like Albany, and Syracuse, where I had trouble locating trailheads. At one point, I got so frustrated, I stopped at Dunkin’s and ate a bag of donut holes, sipped a cup of coffee, and mumbled imprecations. When I came out, half an hour later, a local rider said he could get me back to the trail and told me to follow along. He seemed pleasant enough, but the more he talked – and he talked nonstop – the more I realized he was a conspiracy theorist of the missionary style. His topic for the day was how the international banking system was rigged. We pedaled along for fifteen minutes, when he informed me (to my relief) that he would drop me off at the next light. Then he thought a moment and said he’d come along until I hit the trail, and I listened to his theories for another fifteen minutes straight.

Still, he did get me back to the trail, and he meant well. 

Two days later, this time on a wooded section of the Trailway, I had a similar experience, after catching up with a local rider. This time I was regaled with conspiracy theories that started with George H.W. Bush and the assassination of John F. Kennedy, and carried forward all the way to QAnon and the F.B.I. plot to make Trump’s supporters look bad by staging a “false flag” attack on the U.S. Capitol in January 2021. 

I started wondering if bicyclists were a bunch of eccentrics. 

Including me.

The New York countryside was often beautiful.

Markos and Haley. Serious campers and cyclists.

Jack Lynch, age 94. He gave me a restaurant review (see below).

I rarely take pictures of food; but Lorenzo's was excellent, 
if you're ever biking the Erie Canal Trailway.

Across America, in small towns you see a lot of empty store fronts.

It continued to rain almost every day, as I pedaled across New York.

These friends were out for a trip along the Trailway.
The man on the left lived in Athens, Ohio,
and his kids played with Joe Burrow when he was a boy.

(If you're a Cincinnati Bengals fan, you know Joe.)

The author, right, got to see the Bengals in the Super Bowl.
They were ahead for the first 58 minutes.
Seth Viall, my son, is at left.

 No pioneer wagon train ever had a trail blocked - and a coffee cup warning.

Cows will often come to the fence to watch you pass.
I figure they get bored, like when we click on the TV
just for something to occupy our minds.

(Such as watching: Dr. Pimple Popper.)

A birdwatcher near Herkimer, N.Y. told me to look for the bald eagle.

Fort Herkimer Church - used during the American Revolution.

In some spots, the Erie Canal Trailway almost fizzles out.

A wedding on a canal boat - who knew!

Another issue I was having was that I wasn’t making the distances I had hoped. I averaged 62 miles per day by the time I was done with this ride, but I had averaged 80 on my first two cross-country trips. Now, I kept missing good places to stop and ended up camping constantly in the woods. 

I suppose I should mention that on my first ride across the United States I met a young rider going east. He had a car following, with all his gear, and told me he was doing 140 miles a day! 

And – if you are truly crazy – you can try to break the record for fastest ride across the country. That record was set by Christoph Strasser, an Austrian cyclist, who  finished in seven days, fifteen hours, and fifty-six minutes.

I should also point out that according to Guinness World’s Records, the oldest person to pedal across the USA is Bruce Closser, who did it at age 78, in 2023. As his hometown television station noted, the man from Marquette County, Michigan, “started from Yorktown, Virginia on May 5, and followed the Transamerica bicycle trail then ended on August 22 in Astoria, Oregon.” In all, the septuagenarian “traveled 4,205 miles over 109 days, 91 of which were spent riding.”

 Asked about his main takeaway from his trip, he replied, “That you can do more than you think you can.” 

I would tell others, inclined to try this kind of ride, that Closser is right.

Closser, then, had averaged 46 miles per day while riding, and so I wasn’t doing as poorly as I thought. Still, to cut a couple of days off my route, I decided to bend south, off the Trailway, pedal through Letchworth State Park, and aim for the Pennsylvania panhandle. Letchworth is well worth a visit, and some say the best state park in the nation. I taught history for thirty-three years, so I knew that Mary Jemison had lived on the Genesee River, which runs through Letchworth, and a monument to her still stands. Talk about Fate, kind or cruel, and journeys taken. 

__________ 

“Be a good child and God will bless you.” 

Mary Jemison’s mother.

__________

IN 1758, MARY’S FAMILY was nearly wiped out during a raid by French and Iroquois marauders. Two brothers managed to duck behind a barn and escape to the woods. The rest of the family was taken prisoner and marched away. Mary was twelve or thirteen at the time and never forgot the last words her mother told her. “Don’t forget, my little daughter,” she said one evening, “the prayers that I have learned you. Say them often. Be a good child and God will bless you.” The next morning, Mary was alone with her captors, but that night she saw them cleaning several fresh scalps.

At first, the young girl viewed the Iroquois as “cruel monsters.” But she was adopted by two loving sisters, who treated her “the same as though I had been born of their mother.” She would later say that the Iroquois were “naturally kind, tender and peaceable toward their friends, and strictly honest.”

Eventually, she married a Delaware warrior, a man she found to be thoughtful, brave, and “a great lover of justice.” She had a daughter, who died, then a son. Her first husband was killed during a raid on the Cherokees, far to the south. She married again and found happiness with a husband who had a kind and loving heart. When the American Revolution exploded, however, the Iroquois sided with the British. In 1778 a powerful American army marched across their lands, burning town after town. 

In following years, Mary watched as the native way of life was destroyed. Waves of settlers poured onto Iroquois lands. Alcohol ravished the tribe. Her son, Thomas, named after her father, often collapsed from drink. A boozy fight one night, between Thomas and her son John, ended with John killing Thomas with a tomahawk. John then killed his brother Jesse, also following a bout of drinking. Then John was murdered by questionable friends. 

Mary spent the rest of her life in her cabin on the banks of the Genesee. She was interviewed by Dr. James Seaver in 1823, and related the story of her life. She lived another decade, dying on September 19, 1833. 

So that was one person’s journey. 

Mine, on a bicycle, was much less gory. Even my time in the Marines, during the Vietnam War, had proved bloodless. Twice, as mentioned, I had volunteered to go to Vietnam – and twice wasn’t sent. The first time, the racist staff sergeant in charge of my unit sent a black Marine, telling me he wanted to get rid of the “n-----,” instead. And the second time was pure luck. One day I was doing a hundred pushups in the space between two racks of beds. A sergeant I had never seen before happened past. I was in excellent shape in those days, and he must have stopped to watch. 

Finally, I heard him say, “Marine, if you like to stay in shape, we’re getting up a battalion football team.” 

I jumped up, asked for details, and later made the team. When my idiot staff sergeant asked me not long after, if I still wanted to go to Vietnam, I demurred, and he sent another unlucky black Marine instead. 

So, here I was, more than half a century later, still alive, still kicking (or pedaling), and Letchworth was beautiful, and life was good. 

I recommend cycling through the park if you’re in the area. There are good shoulders on the roads, but I can also report that there are serious hills. 

As for Mary’s story, it can be found online.

 

 

Blood, faith, journeys by buggy, and bacon and eggs.

AFTER LEAVING THE PARK, I cut across the New York countryside, zoomed across the Pennsylvania panhandle, and reentered Ohio. The roads along Lake Erie offered beautiful views, and the sun was out, and pedaling was a delight. 

At one point, I ran into Andrei, an Israeli cyclist heading east, who had already done 5,000 kilometers, and we had a good talk. I failed to take adequate notes, but he said I could find his story on crazyguyonabike.com. But, so far, I have been unable. My memory now is that when he hit the Atlantic Coast, he planned to go back the other way and do a circuit of 10,000 kilometers in all. If I correctly recall, he had started in Arizona, headed west, up the Pacific Coast, and then east across the U.S., to Ohio, where we passed. I didn’t ask but did wonder if he might not be extending his pedaling to avoid the disastrous fighting back home. Not that he was a coward, I don’t mean, but that who would want to be taking part in the carnage at this point. Around the same time his journey and mine intersected, the death toll in Gaza surpassed 40,000. All those individual journeys ended, terribly, and for no good purpose. 

So, I hope Andrei has stayed safe.

I had a nice talk with Andrei, a rider from Israel.
He had already done 5,000 kilometers, and was hoping to
hit the Atlantic coast, and then go back west.

(I wondered if he was trying to avoid going home
and getting mixed up in the savage fighting in Gaza.) 

 

In this case, we can go back all the way to the founding of Israel, if we choose, or back to the days of Jesus of Nazareth. But I’ll start with the surprise attack by Hamas forces on October 7, 2023. Emerging from secret tunnels, dropping in by paragliders, ripping gaps in border defenses, Hamas fighters – terrorists to most – killed 1,195 men, women and children. More than a quarter of the dead, mostly young Israeli adults, were attending a music festival, and from that venue were many of 250 hostages taken, including Omer Shem Tov, 20. Dozens of rapes were recorded, and hundreds were wounded. It was the worst mass slaughter of Jews, since the Holocaust. 

Israeli forces, far superior in firepower and the technology of modern war struck back with a fury. If justice was on their side at first – and Palestinians would mostly discount even that – the slaughter of the innocent people of Gaza shocked the world. It was a tragedy when the death toll passed 10,000 – 25,000 – and on the very day I saw that motorcyclist crash, I happened to read that 39,000 Palestinians had been killed. 

By the time I swooped down the mountain, into Saint Mary, Omer had spent 289 days in captivity. Like so many other hostages, the young Israeli had to sort out the hard facts of his new life. “The first place I went to was God,” he explained later. “I would feel a power enter me,” he said. 

“Faith kept me going,” he added. “I always believed I would get home, though I didn’t know how or when.” 

At home, though he could not know it, his mother was reciting Chapter 20, from the Book of Psalms, every day: “May the Lord answer you on a day of distress.” 

Her son, had adopted the same passage, reciting it daily, deep under ground in a tunnel built by Hamas. At one point, Omer sat for fifty days, alone, in a small cell, with hardly any food or drink. It was pitch dark most of the time, and his asthma kicked up, until a guard brought him an inhaler. Some days, all he had to eat was one biscuit, with a little water to wash the “meal” down. 

At times, he crossed paths with other hostages. Hersh Goldberg-Polin, an Israeli American prisoner, offered Omer and others a bit of hope, in the form of a motto to live by, first posited by a Holocaust survivor. “He who has a why,” Viktor Frankl, had said, “can bear any how.” Tov turned more and more to religion, for solace. He did his best to keep kosher. He promised God that if he got home, he would pray daily with tefillin, small leather boxes containing Bible verses, that the observant tie to their heads and left arms, during morning prayer. 

So, faith could be said to have saved Tov, but Goldberg-Polin would be killed by captors who practiced a different faith. Faith would help Frankl cope with unimaginable horrors during the Nazi reign of terror, and Or Levi, and Eli Sharabi, too. Levi and Sharabi, also taken prisoner on October 7, had crossed journeys with Goldberg-Polin, deep under Gaza. Levi would later be rescued and would have that motto tattooed on his arm. Sharabi would be sustained by that “why,” and emerge from the tunnels after 481 days, emaciated, but happy to be alive. Only then would he learn that his wife and two teenage daughters had been killed during the initial Hamas attack.

So, I pedaled, and I was happy, and my family remained safe, spread across Ohio, Oregon, Georgia and California. 

And the Israeli hostages endured. Tov, himself, was finally freed after 505 days in enemy hands. 

The blood stains in Israel and Gaza have only spread. When I checked in June 2025, 55,720 Palestinians were dead, and 1,706 Israelis. Yet, Hamas leaders had refused to give up the last hostages, and most of the Gaza Strip – once home to two million people – has been reduced to rubble and dust. 

Iran has also been dragged into the fighting; and you can blame whomever you want, or blame everyone, or no one at all. 

History, Edward Gibbon once explained, is “little more than the register of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind.” 

And I know. I know that the Israelis and Palestinians have been fighting since before I was born, an entire lifetime of carnage. I know the Jews have reason to fight. To make sure no Holocaust can ever again occur. I know Palestinians, who were driven off their land have cause to be bitter. And for many Palestinians since the founding of Israel in 1948, the journey has been bleak.  I know that we had three centuries in this country to deal with the native peoples fairly and failed. I know that the Holy Land was the scene of two hundred years of on-again, off-again killing sprees, known as “Crusades.” 

Killing others in God’s name. 

I know about pogroms, and serfdom, slavery and the denial of rights for all women, and massacres of all kinds of groups, by all kinds of other groups, and it is hard not to weep for humanity itself.

Yet, my journey, in the summer of 2024, remained unbloody, and from my route along the shore of Lake Erie, I soon bent south through excellent farmland, much of it tilled by Amish and Mennonite families. I enjoyed seeing buggies, and bearded men, and bonneted women, and one night, when I made camp in a patch of woods, I listened to the comforting “clop, clop” of buggies passing in the dark. 

I should also mention one of my guiding principles for these rides. Stop at every local café and restaurant you can. It’s a great way to meet locals and talk, assuming you and they will think to put down your phones. And the bacon and eggs are always better than the dull fare available at the fast-food palaces that blight the land. In Canastota, New York, I talked to the young woman who owned the place where I breakfasted. She explained how the closing of several local factories had put a serious dent in the economy of the town. Empty store fronts dotted the block, mute testimony to the truth of what she said.

On a lighter note, try to find local bakeries, too. 

Eat donuts. 

Pedal. 

Lose weight. 

Repeat. 

I'm not ashamed. I eat a lot of pastries on my long rides.

Letchworth State Park in New York, 
considered one of the best state parks in the U.S.

Lower Falls on the Genesee River.

That is one big piece of slate, for a table.

Statue of Mary Jemison. She saw the good and bad in people on both sides.

A pioneer staircase. Don't try this when drunk.

I didn't agree with the sentiment; but credit the enthusiasm.

Sweating profusely.

EVEN IN OHIO, my planning occasionally proved shaky. At one point I took a road due south. On my old-fashioned, Triple-A, foldout map, it was marked light gray: “lightly traveled.” Busier routes were black. Heavily traveled highways were red. The road I was using might have been light gray on a map, but it was bright red on a sunny mid-May afternoon. Dozens of cars and trucks ripped past..

I began sweating profusely. At first, I thought it was heat and exertion. Then I realized terror had a grip.

As I have often grumbled, for cyclists, Ohio roads can be some of the worst in the nation. The main problem is that the idea of a “shoulder” to ride on in my home state is a white line along the edge of the pavement, with six inches of asphalt to spare. To add to the fun, many of our highways feature ditches, lined with stones, right to the side. If a car is coming too close from behind, you can try to balance your wheels on the six inches of extra pavement and hope the vehicle misses. Or you can crash into the ditch. 

And land on the stones. 

Fear finally forced me to stop and consider options. Luckily, the new phone apps allow a rider to punch in safe routes. Fresh directions indicated that all I had to do was pedal west for a mile, then turn south on township roads. I ended up with twelve miles of good pavement almost to myself. (I don’t know about other cyclists, but on little-used roads, if a car is coming up behind, I switch to the left side of the road, if the way is clear, and let them pass, then steer back right.)

My next destination was Granville, Ohio, a pretty college town, where my daughter Emily and her family live. By this point, I was riding on some very hot days, and learned the hard way that my phone could overheat and freeze up – a lesson I would learn repeatedly once I got out West. The good news was that there are a lot of good bike trails in Ohio, and I got to Granville in fine shape on May 21. After a pleasant visit with Emily and her crew, I got a ride home to Cincinnati with my wife. 

I took time off, caught up on chores, celebrated my wife’s 72nd birthday, and on June 3, I was off once more.

Back to Ohio - and goodbye to most roads with good shoulders.

I had a nice talk with a group of veterans at Angela's Cafe in Conneaut, Ohio,
and another great breakfast. "Bacon and eggs across America," I say!

They have an entire wall filled with pictures of veterans.

Oftentimes, I come to "Road Closed" places. Usually, you can ride right through. 
In this case the worker with the beam chewed me out.

(The only time this ever backfired was when a bridge over a river in Kansas was out.)

The sun was out, and I had a nice ride along a good road near Lake Erie.

Amish buggies and farmland near Middlefield, Ohio.

 
In Hiram, Ohio, I had donuts at Maggie's Place.
They work hard to include individuals with different abilities.

In memory of soldiers lost in the Civil War and Vietnam.
I could have been sent to Vietnam. 
My journey took me in a different direction.

What could Lamont Hill have done with another fifty years of life?

Pedaling along a rails-to-trails route in Ohio. 
You can go from Cleveland to Cincinnati almost all the way on trails.

Not far from Akron, I picked up the trail through the Cuyahoga Valley National Park.
It follows the old Ohio & Erie Canal.

 
During my break in Cincinnati, my granddaughter Ellora Viall and I
did a ride on the Little Miami Trail. She's my favorite riding companion.

June 3: Ready for the second leg of my trip. I was even in good shape!

Pedal strokes and real strokes? 

I’LL HAVE TO EXPAND the next few sections of description later, but for now, this is what I have. Leaving Cincinnati, I followed the Little Miami Bicycle Trail north for a hundred miles. On the second day out, after camping comfortably in the woods, I suffered a flat tire when I stopped to take a picture of an abandoned factory and set my front wheel down on a board with a staple protruding. When I examined the tube, it looked almost exactly like a snake bite. 

In the process, I managed to misplace my phone, but rode off, after I patched my tire, not noticing I had “abandoned” my device. I wasn’t sure if I dropped it after setting it atop my saddle bags, but I had pedaled at least seven miles before I noticed it was gone. Several good Samaritans ended up helping in a futile search. One retired police officer, an avid cyclist, backtracked up the trail all the way to the factory, and a nurse out for a ride called on her sister and brother-in-law to bring their car and help. Nothing. We found nothing. Two hours wasted. A phone lost. In the modern world, all meaningful communications would be severed! I could not have been more frustrated. 

We gathered beside the trail to plot our next move; and in my disgust, I turned to talk to the nurse. 

The police officer, asked (gently, I should note), “Could you have put your phone in the back of your jersey?” 

God d**n! What an idiot. My phone had been there all along. But I was reminded again how many kind people want to help us all on our journeys through life. We forget that. And we should not. At one point, in my confusion, the nurse now admitted, she thought I had been having a stroke.

 

MY PLAN now was to keep pedaling north, into Michigan, and cycle along Lake Michigan – which I did – but go as far north as the Upper Peninsula – which I didn’t – before heading west. The problem was I still wasn’t making the mileage I needed. At a campground on the shore of Lake Michigan one morning, a woman saw my limited tent setup and sparse breakfast menu and asked if I’d like coffee. I thanked her and ended up being served a full breakfast out of an RV kitchen, courtesy of her and her husband. They mentioned a ferry across the lake, from Ludington to Manitowoc, Wisconsin. I took it the next day and cut four hundred miles off my route. At this point, I started meeting other riders – starting with two friends on recumbent bikes, Zack Pedersen and Cameron Crane.

I’ve met dozens of great people on my rides, and I’ve had hundreds make kind donations before I set off, and Cam and Zack are two of my favorites. They were bigger than most riders, and at one point in life, Cam, who stands 6 foot 2, told me his weight ballooned to 357 and so a cyclist was born of health necessity. He had taught at several schools, working with the visually impaired and the deaf and hard of hearing, so we had teaching in common. Zack was an ICU nurse. I could relate because Emily, our youngest, is a nurse, and Sarah, our second youngest, is a nurse practitioner. Zack had gone to three different colleges, including Portland State, where he played football for one year. But Cam told me that his friend tore up his knee in just that one season. 

I have interviewed both men since we got home from our rides. Cam said he thought Zack had like “450 credits” in college, and when I asked Zack about his student days, he said his initial plan was to major in comparative religion and philosophy, before he transferred to Portland State. “My junior year of college was like a real life ‘Groundhog’s Day’ scenario,” he told me, “reliving the same day over and over, and there was nothing I could do to escape.” 

I need to check again to be sure I have this right – but I believe he dropped out after that and returned to school later to get a nursing degree. 

The day I met them, both friends had on those reflective vests you see construction workers wear, and might have been mistaken for bulldozer operators, but talking to them as we crossed the wide lake, I realized that I was the dumbest one at the table in the S.S. Badger lounge. Zack had traveled widely, often doing volunteer work in poor countries like Ghana, and he turned out to be a huge fan of Edward Gibbon. 

And who is not! 

I mean, of course, the esteemed author of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It’s the kind of light reading every rider should enjoy, at least one hefty volume of which I recommend he/she/they carry in their saddlebags for several thousand miles across the whole, wide country. And do not wimp out and toss it during a daunting mountain climb. I had read Gibbon, myself, and love his wisdom, so we talked about some of the Greek historians I had read. Herodotus, the “father of history,” is a favorite, and I told Zack that I would send him a copy of Herodotus after I got home.

 

EXAMPLES: 

 “In a large and tumultuous assembly, the restraints of fear and shame, so forcible on the minds of individuals, are deprived of the greatest part of their influence.” Gibbon explains the workings of a mob.

 

(Application: January 6, 2021.)

 

 

 “Would you like a truthful answer, my Lord, or a comforting one?” Demaratus speaking to Xerxes, the Persian king, after a bitter defeat, from Herodotus

 

(Application: If you are powerful, cherish those who tell you hard truths.)

 

“I am obliged to record the things I am told, but I am certainly not required to believe them – this remark may be taken to apply to the whole of my account.” Herodotus on how he compiled his history.

 

(Application: Ignore at least two-thirds of what you read or hear on social media.)

 

Cam shared my favorite story from the entire trip. He met Lauren, his future wife, when he was 20, and they were both counselors at an interfaith summer camp. She was Jewish, but Cam wasn’t religious. He needed to have something to qualify him to be a counselor, so he put down “Taoist” on his application for work. He and Lauren hit it off from the start but remained friends for a decade. At one point, he summoned the nerve to suggest that because they got along so well, they should try dating. Lauren was afraid to risk the friendship. Cam swallowed his disappointment, and Lauren (who by that time had graduated from Yale, and grad school at Stanford, and had a degree in cross-cultural psychology) went to India to work on a book. From there, she headed for Japan, and it might have been that she and Cam would never see each other again.

The Three Fates send an email. 

THEN FATES AGAIN – with a wallop in life like a runaway motorcycle on a mountain road – but in this case, kind.  

In Greek mythology, the Three Fates (the Moirai) are responsible for shaping the lives of we mortals, from birth to death. Clotho spins the thread of life, representing birth. Lachesis measures the thread, determining how long we shall live. Atropos, “The Inflexible,” cut’s the thread, symbolizing the finality of death.  

Which of the three has dominion over email, the ancient Greeks failed to relate. One day, at work, however, Cam got a message that changed his life. Lauren wanted him to know she had come to realize she was in love.  

Which of the three has dominion over email, the ancient Greeks do not say. One day, at work, however, Cam got an email that changed his life. Lauren wanted him to know she had come to realize she was in love. 

“You’re the one,” she said, “this is for real.” 

Cam was so shocked, the blood drained from his face, and even his students asked if he was sick. His class was preparing for a test, but Cam could no longer focus and had to read the email three times. Finally, he asked another teacher to cover his class, wandered outside, and paced up and down the football field in a daze. 

Eventually, he regained his equilibrium, and asked Lauren to come home, and they moved in together. She got a job teaching at a college in Massachusetts. Cam said it was hard, at first, because he didn’t know anyone, but they persevered. Finally, the question of marriage arose. Lauren was a traditionalist, and wanted to take Cam’s last name, but as Cam explained, his father had done nothing for him, and he hated his last name. They agreed to compromise – they would decide on a new surname together. And the Three Fates sent a bird. (I was walking to an exam one day, at Ohio University, and a bird shit on my head; but that is a different fate entirely, and not nearly so romantic. And I did get an “A” on the test – so, F**k you, you winged terrorist!) 

On the day Cam stopped Lauren on a park bridge, and knelt to propose, a crane flapped down from the sky and landed on the railing where they were. “I think we have our new name,” he said, and that’s how they became Mr. and Dr. Crane. Today, they have two children, Cade, a high school junior, who aspires to attend Columbia and study medicine, and Sarafina, a freshman who wants to study law. Lauren teaches at Wittenberg University, in Springfield, Ohio, a town famous for famished immigrants, said to have a habit of, “Eating the cats. They’re eating the dogs! They’re eating the pets!” 

So, the Three Fates, via email, changed two lives, and Clotho took a hand in the creation of two more. Now Cam and Lauren try to shape the fates of the young people they teach. Zack does his part to cheat crueler fates in his work in the ICU. The Haitians in Springfield dodged Atropos and left a gang-infested land.

 

It is my belief that every person we meet has a compelling story to relate, if we ask the right questions. I like to ask happily married couples, and young people in stable relationships, how they met. And almost without exception they are pleased to explain – to share stories of good fortune. 

But I wonder. How many people walk past their perfect matches in life, while stopping to choose bananas at Costco?  How many others rue the day they crossed paths at birthday parties or while serving as groomsmen or bridesmaids at friends’ weddings, with future ex-husbands or future ex-wives, or future ex-lovers that would scar them in all the ways flawed humans can? Fate can deal us happiness, via email – or send us careening off a mountain road – and there seems no fairness in determining which portion we are served. 

Journeys of joy. 

Journeys accursed. 

The Father of History.

Prayers of all kinds.

IN DAYS TO COME, I would pedal across Wisconsin and Minnesota, into North Dakota, and then across Montana. At every turn, as on every long ride I have taken, I met good people, who reminded me of the prevailing goodness of humanity. I met a young couple riding east on their honeymoon, which I thought was fantastic and fun. I met Emily Johnson on a broiling hot day in Montana, and the 30-ish-year-old rider and I shared stories of journeys taken and plans for journeys to come. She had already completed the Appalachian Trail, so I had no doubt she’d complete her solo cross-country ride. I had breakfast one morning with two young ranchers in Montana and met the Bossen twins and their parents, one of my favorite experiences of the trip. Back East, I met a pair of church leaders out riding a trail one day – and they told me about plans to take a group of 55 teens hiking later that summer. At one point, I had people of four different religious denominations pray for my safety, four days in succession. I’m a skeptic, but it couldn’t hurt. 

Every individual I met had a tale to tell, and one I knew would be worth telling. So, I took contact information and hope to follow up with as many as possible soon. I came away from my trip, with a refreshed view of America and my fellow Americans , generally, whereas if we watch the nightly news, we might assume that most of us are anxious to kill each other, due to politics, and drink our victims’ blood. 

You would think that someone like me, a dedicated Democrat, would be unsafe in red states; but I have more faith in people than that

Like individuals, of course, nations are also on journeys, and we don’t want to forget what happened to the Hittites, Assyrians, Nubians, Carthaginians, Mayans, Aztecs, Incas, or Ottomans, to name a few.

I think there’s a real story to tell about the journeys we all face, and how to be successful – and help others along the way. But do I possess the ability to truly tell the tale? 

Or the time? 

At 75, you never know. My wife’s Uncle Fred once told her, when he turned 80, that he was never sure he should buy a gallon of milk – because he couldn’t know if he’d live long enough to drink it all. I liked his sense of humor, when I was in my 40’s and she related that story, and now that I’m nearing the same age, I still do. 

On the other hand, I don’t think you should hesitate at any age if there is a large package of Oreos you want to buy. You only live once. 

As far as we know.

These two church leaders were out trying to get in shape.
They were going to take 55 teens hiking later in the summer.

They said they'd pray for me on my journey.

My shoe fell apart. So I got duct tape with a design 
that reminded me of my granddaughter.

I stay at motels and hotels every few days.
These gentlemen heard what I was doing, noticed my shoe,
and later sent me a $100 dollar gift certificate to REI.

I count all gifts as donations to to JDRF,
and add the requisite amount to my fundraising account.

My phone app allowed me to find excellent roads, 
lightly traveled. But gravel? Not a fan.

Patriotism writ large.

I took this picture because the flags in the background
were standing straight out. The wind was ferocious that day.

My first view of Lake Michigan.

The blogger poses for posterity.

Sculpture along the way.

Cookies on call! I was definitely stopping!
Six chocolate chip cookies later, I was ready to roll.

As a former history teacher, I thought this sentiment was apt.

Muskegon State Park, on the Lake Michigan shore. It was great.

I was packing up my tent, when this nice woman asked if I'd like coffee.
They ended up serving breakfast and prayed for my safe journey, too.

I really need to do a better job keeping track of names.

Cameron Crane prepares to roll his bicycle onto the ferry at Ludington.

CLICK ON ANY PICTURES TO EXPAND.

Wisconsin and Minnesota. 

RIDING ACROSS Wisconsin and Minnesota was easy. You could often use bicycle trails, the only problem being that trails can get boring. Much of the countryside reminded me of Ohio. Then, one night, I was going to camp in the Minnesota woods – but saw a black bear hustle across the road around dinnertime. 

I did not want to be “stealth camping” in a wooded area where bears might take a nibble on my toes. 

I found a state campground, instead, but the mosquitoes were swarming, and I was their dinner time. A young couple at the next site lent me bug-repellant, gave me shrimp just cooked, off their grill, and allowed me to place my food and toiletries in their truck for safekeeping that night. They were both Trump fans, I believe. The young woman wore a dark pink t-shirt with a silhouette of Donald, with just a shock of gold hair, and a long red tie to indicate who it was. But besides their kindness, what impressed me most was the young man’s stance on his children from a previous marriage. He had his boys every other weekend and saw them whenever else he could. He often brought them camping, and had been teaching them to hunt and fish, and he was a man of faith. It was clear I was in the presence of a dedicated father, who was going to be there, doing the best he knew how to help his children on their journeys through life. 

As for any lessons I can offer for long-distance riders, who want to enjoy pedaling across the United States? 

If you’re going to be camping, don’t be a nitwit like me. 

Pack bug spray!

A Catholic church in Green Bay, Wisconsin.

I met this couple at a park, where I was eating lunch.
They prayed for me, too!

When you ride the back roads you often find towns that are atrophying. 

Saturday morning at work.

Every abandoned store and home represents disappointed hopes and dreams.

I wondered if the cows agreed with the sentiment.

Someday, I want to ride across the country in a tank.
I will camp wherever I want!

Rural areas tend to vote red. I tend to vote blue.

The Lutheran influence in Wisconsin and Minnesota is pronounced.
Many Scandinavian immigrants settled in the region.

That should be "loose," not "lose." I did a header into a pile of dirt.
Cracked my helmet, not my noggin'.

A "successful" journey by air.

The obligatory picture when you cross into a new state.

Good roads for riding in Minnesota.

The Paul Bunyan Bicycle Trail made for an interesting ride.
"Babe," Paul's famous blue ox.

Vehicles for sale: May need work.

We all travel on borrowed time.
Where do we want to go with the time we are granted?

Crossing the river in Brainerd, Minnesota.

Camping in Minnesota.

Skree, Minnesota, is close to the North Dakota border.
I wondered how many people attended town hall meetings here.

 

North Dakota – I begin to cook my brains. 

BACK EAST, rain had marred the first leg of my journey. Pedaling across North Dakota, I faced fresh challenges, including an increasingly sore left foot. 

In my notes, I had this: 

June 21: pleasant weather all day, sailed along for 78 miles, but then ran into rain around six. Stopped in Mapleton, North Dakota, at Hagee’s Bar and Grill. Jason, the owner, gave me a room at “Hotel Shed,” as John, my best friend back home, later dubbed it, and I remained happy and dry.  

While I was first waiting in line for a table, a group of young people asked me where I was headed. I told them I was peddling across the country. One bearded fellow responded, with impeccable timing, “On purpose?” 

We all shared a hearty laugh, its own reward.

CLICK ON ANY PICTURES TO EXPAND.

I crossed into North Dakota at Fargo,
and got caught in a rainstorm at Mapleton.
Jason Hagee, who has a bar and grill in town, took pity on me.

 

He set up a cot in a shed out back and I spent a pleasant night.
Cross-country cycling luxury. The food was good at Hagee's Bar and Grill, too.

June 22: I google: “partially torn Achilles tendon.” Foot still hurts. Did 84 miles in cool weather. Ate lunch at community owned cafe in Page, North Dakota, population 190 in 2020. In pictures from 1915, hanging on the café walls, you can see the center street lined with Model-T Fords. There’s a town marching band in another photo, and crowds gathered for horse racing, with $2,500 in prizes, big money in those days, in a third. The woman at the counter and the cook told me they were community volunteers. I left a 40% tip for the teenage waitress, a volunteer, herself. 

The woman at the counter told me the town was down to 189 people at that point, and it’s hard to see how these small towns will ever grow again.  

From Mapleton, I cut to the north to use North Dakota 200.
That took me past Page.

 

The summer of 2024 turned out to be one of the hottest on record, the year the hottest, globally, ever measured. There were days when I felt like the toast in the toaster. And I admit, when I’m home, and do have time to worry, that I worry a great deal about climate change. I think, long after I am gone, that my children and grandchildren are all going to get cooked. 

And yours, too.

 

Still, I found wide open highways for pedaling all the way across the state, including part of the time on Interstate 94. It’s legal to ride along interstates in several western states, including both Dakotas, Montana, and parts of Oregon. One morning, on a wide-open state route, with minimal traffic, I ran into Matt and Kenzie Palmer, a young married couple, cycling east – and as I learned – on their honeymoon! I do relish talking to these young people, who have so much more of life ahead, and learned that they were both 23, and met when they were sixteen. We agreed that it had been beastly hot the day before, and I knew the temperature had hit 98°. But they said they had measured the road temperature at 120°. Another day, I pedaled up the off ramp on I-94, at Dickinson, N.D. At the traffic light, I realized I was close to blacking out. Feeling woozy, and almost sick, I dismounted and stumbled 800 feet to a Dairy Queen. I ordered chicken tenders, fries, and a Heath Bar Blizzard, and killed two solid hours in air conditioning, making sure I recovered my wits. Then I gave up for the day and found a motel.

Matt and Kenzie on their honeymoon. They were both 23, and met at age 16.
I love the spirit of adventure these young riders reflect.

That's me on the right. Look, I was getting thin!
(Now that I've been back home, I'm getting fat again!)

New Salem, N.D. was hurting for tourist attractions.

Another day, my phone put me on a rutted dirt and gravel highway.
Cue the profanity!

I gave out in Dickinson, N.D., and found a cheap hotel room.
The heat was so intense, the power blew out across town.

 
My view of the sky while camping one morning.

"Stealth camping" off the side of Interstate 94.

Stopping to fix a flat tire on Interstate 94.
A North Dakota state trooper stopped to see if I was alright.

Looking back the way I'd come.

When I'm pedaling I hate to pay high prices for motels.
This place wasn't exactly four stars.
(Name of the establishment withheld to protect the innocent.)

Someone forgot to iron the pillowcases. The sheets were no better.

Parked in the motel lot - a car with three flats.

As a former history teacher, of course, I had to stop at the Fort Mandan museum.
Talk about journeys! Lewis and Clark lost only one man, to appendicitis.
The Mandan chief at left is Sheheke, or "White Coyote."

Meriwether Lewis, dressed for exploration.
He died early - possibly by suicide, in 1809.

The explorers carried tools for amputations, if necessary.

Mastodon tooth. Even President Jefferson thought
there might be mastodons still alive, in the West.

Carving out a dugout canoe, 1806-style.
Pedaling looks a lot easier.

For a retired history teacher, one highlight involved stopping at Fort Mandan, in Washburn, N.D., where Lewis and Clark and their Corps of Discovery built a post and settled in for the winter of 1804-1805. I enjoyed a tour of the museum, but by that point I was having trouble shifting gears, and the lever on my left handlebar was dangling precariously by a cable. A quick “Google Maps” search showed that the nearest bicycle shop was in Bismarck, fifty miles south, and not on any route I had thought to follow. 

By this time, I was facing tight time constraints if I hoped to see my wife who was visiting our daughter Sarah and her husband Logan, in Portland, Oregon. So, on June 26, I left my bicycle behind for repairs, rented a vehicle, and drove to the coast. On the way, I visited the Little Big Horn battlefield where, on June 25, 1876, George Armstrong Custer’s earthly journey came to an abrupt end, punctuated by arrows. Anne and I spent eleven days with Sarah, whose personal journey also began on June 25, a hundred and thirteen years after Custer’s demise. Sarah was a “mistake,” when she was born, but a joyful one, making her journey fortuitous from the moment of conception to this day. 

Her husband’s ancestors are Jewish, meaning they had traveled across the centuries at grave risk. 

It took two more days to drive back to Bismarck to pick up my two-wheeled friend. On the way back, I stopped and camped at Lewis and Clark Caverns, where countless stars flickered all night. 

Again, the mystifying question of journeys, both good and bad. The average American drives 14,263 miles annually, and most of us are never killed. Considering our “skills” behind the wheel, that’s a miracle right there. According to the Federal Highway Administration, males average more miles traveled than females at all ages, and more than twice as many, after age 65. So, you could argue that we all test Fate every day – and almost always win. In 2024, an estimated 44,680 Americans died in traffic accidents. That would be, in a Leap Year, 122 deaths per day. 

I do know I was still avoiding any loaded cylinders on my bike. In a brief note, on July 11, I summed up my first day back on the trail: “67 miles: 20 on gravel, got frustrated and decided to use I-94. Got flat. Young lady stops and offers a ride to Montana. Highway patrol got called and showed up just as I completed tube change. Officer says a ride across the USA is on his bucket list.” 

I assured him that he would love it if he had the chance. 

If I was “Lewis” without Clark, riding solo, and my story is about journeys of every type, I suppose I should spend a little time on the epic Lewis and Clark expedition, before I leave North Dakota behind. 

I can also report that Matt and Kenzie completed their honeymoon crossing, and now, hopefully, will travel together for another half century or more. When I checked in recently, they were off on another adventure, this time pedaling in Europe. I hope to interview them when they return home. 

Sacagawea, Lewis, Clark, and York at the great falls of the Missouri River.

As for Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, most Americans have heard of them and Sacagawea, their Native American guide. But most people, if they ever knew any details, have long forgotten them since leaving school. The Corps of Discovery was tiny, no more than fifty men at any point. That number was winnowed down, to just over thirty, as individuals proved undependable in various ways. A soldier named John Collins was punished with fifty lashes, after going absent without leave. Then he had to endure a hundred more, after being caught drunk on duty. 

Fate was kind to Lewis and Clark during their travels, not so much on their return. Only one member of the Corps was lost on the trip, Charles Floyd, who likely died from a burst appendix. Yet Lewis did not long survive the return to “civilization” in September 1806. He died at 35, by suicide, three years later, after being disappointed in love, falling into debt, drinking to excess, and taking quack medicines – in those days often laced with opium or morphine. Some speculate that his decline had to do with an advanced case of syphilis, caught among the natives, during the trip. 

Clark had brought along a “servent,” as he says, misspelling the word, to describe his slave, York. York was treated like one of the explorers, including being allowed to carry a rifle and go hunt. But when he returned from his travels, he no longer cared to be treated like a slave. He demanded his freedom and made “trouble” about wanting to live with his wife, who was owned by another man who lived in Louisville, Kentucky, far away. Clark admits in a letter that he gave his slave a “Severe trouncing the other Day” and he had then “mended” his ways. Clark seriously considered selling York down the river, but Lewis, before he died, convinced his friend and colleague to hire York out to a master in Kentucky, nearer to where his wife lived. 

Sacagawea – who would prove so valuable to the expedition after she and her husband, Toissant Charbonneau, joined the Corps during the winter at Fort Mandan – gave birth to a son, Jean Baptiste, during the trip. In 1812, she had a second child, a daughter named Lizette, but died soon after, aged 25. 

Nations, of course, take journeys, as well, sometimes ending in disaster, as the German people in 1933 were about to learn. The entire history of the United States was reshaped favorably during the years 1803-1806. For starters, the French, under Napoleon, decided to sell us the Louisiana Purchase in 1803. For 3¢ per acre ($15 million in all), and without a single shot being fired, the U.S. doubled in size. This was a development, one historian has said, that “echoes down the pages of history.” If we listen, it still does. All well and good for President Thomas Jefferson, of course, but terrible news for the earliest occupants of that wide swath of land, the celebrated but misidentified “Native Americans.”

 

__________

 

“The first principle of governing the Indians

is governing the whites.” 

Meriwether Lewis

__________ 

 

Lewis and Clark both proved sympathetic to the pressures the spreading settler populations were putting on the natives, and Lewis blamed much of the trouble on the whites and blacks, for sure. 

Had the various tribes understood in 1804, what the Fates had in store, they had been wise to have rubbed out the entire Corps of Discovery, setting back American expansion for as long as they could. But the tribes could never unite because they saw themselves as distinct and separate peoples. Just as Europe was riven during the bloody Napoleonic Wars, the lands that would become the middle third of the United States were scenes of sustained bloodshed. Sacagawea herself, a member of the Shoshone tribe, had been captured by Hidatsa raiders when she was a girl and later sold to a French fur trapper, who had more than one wife. The Crow and the Sioux were bitter foes, and the Sioux themselves had been driven off their lands in what is now Minnesota by better-armed Chippewa warriors. The Mandan people, a sedentary farming tribe, had seen their population plummet in the face of a smallpox epidemic in 1782. That disease was brought up the Missouri River by white fur traders. And now, when the Mandan met Lewis and Clark, they saw them as possible allies to ward off attacks by their warlike neighbors. 

Among the tasks they had been assigned, Lewis and Clark were expected to make friends with any tribes they met. Often, after setting out in May 1804, they would hand out medals to tribal leaders, carrying President Jefferson’s image on the front. No white or black American really knew what lay ahead, not even Mr. Jefferson. Even so sophisticated a thinker as he was could still ask the explorers to be on the lookout for mastodons, which some scientists believed might still inhabit the Far West. The Corps was also expected to compile records on new plants and animals discovered, and to map the routes with as much precision as the scientific instruments they carried would allow. Both captains kept detailed journals, as well, as did a few of their men. 

In the same way that I was buzz-bombed by insects at a camp in Minnesota one day, I could relate to their experiences as they sailed up the Missouri River in 1804. Captain Clark (whose spelling was always “creative,” to say the least), could report on June 17, “The Ticks and Musquiters are troublesome.” 

On July 31, Charles Floyd wrote in his journal: “I am verry sick and has ben for Sometime but have Recovered my helth again.” 

He had less than three weeks to live.

 

Most of the tribes the explorers met were friendly, more curious than anything, not yet clear about the threat future waves of soldiers and settlers would represent. On August 8, the explorers gave a bottle of whiskey and a cannister of gunpowder to leaders of two tribes, which Clark called “the Ottos and Missouries.” 

Bernard DeVoto, who would later edit the explorers’ journals, mentions that the Omaha tribe had been driven out of Iowa by the Sioux. 

He explained: 

They had their brief place in the sun under a chief named Blackbird, a notorious thug and pirate, who had learned the use of arsenic and, obtaining it from traders, poisoned such members of his tribe as were disposed to disagree with him. In 1802, however, an epidemic of smallpox that swept this stretch of the river killed Blackbird and reduced the Omahas to about three hundred.

 

August 18 was Lewis’s birthday, but the day was marred by the trial of Moses Reed. Reed was punished for stealing a rifle and shot pouch, with powder and ball. He was sentenced to run the gauntlet four times, with other members of the Corps striking him as they pleased. 

On September 7, the explorers saw their first “barking squirrels,” or prairie dogs. Clark noted again: “Muskeetors verry troublesome,” taking another hopeless stab at the spelling. They spotted the first coyotes which they took for a species of fox. Great herds of buffalo could now be seen. 

Lewis wrote: 

this scenery already rich pleasing and beautiful was still farther hightened by the immense herds of Buffaloe, deer Elk and Antelopes which we saw in every direction feeding on the hills and plains. I do not think I exagerate when I estimate the number of Buffaloe which could be compre[hend]ed at one view to amount to 3000.

 

On September 25, the Corps of Discovery finally entered the territory of the powerful Sioux nation. As DeVoto notes, “The Teton Sioux had usually stopped upriver trading parties altogether and forced them to dispose of their goods at ruinously low prices which the Sioux themselves set and which amounted to little more than robbery.”

Sioux finery: Elk tooth dress.

 

In fact, Lewis and Clark expected trouble. Tensions were so great that Clark was unable to sleep for four days, and he and the other men were repeatedly challenged. At one point, a party of Sioux was invited to board the explorers’ 55-foot long keelboat, with mixed results. Clark notes, “we gave them ¼ a glass of whiskey which they appeared to be verry fond of, Sucked the bottle after it was out & Soon began to be troublesom, one the 2d Cheif assumeing Drunkness, as a Cloake for his rascally intentions[.]” 

Three young warriors seized the rope that tied the vessel to shore and refused to let go. According to Captain Clark, the Sioux chief proved “verry insolent both in words and justures (pretended Drunkenness & staggered up against me) declareing I should not go on, Stateing he had not received presents sufficient from us, his justures were of Such a personal nature I felt Myself compeled to Draw my Sword (and Made a Signal to the boat to prepare for action).” 

Many of the Sioux strung their bows, equivalent to soldiers cocking their weapons, but their chief relented, and the Corps went on. In his journal, Sgt. John Ordway wrote that when Black Buffalo, the second chief, also grabbed the rope, one swivel cannon had already been loaded with sixteen musket balls and two others filled with buckshot. So, the explorers were prepared to mow the Sioux down. Fortunately, “Capt Clark used moderation with them told them that we must and would go on and would go. that we were not Squaws. but warriers. the chief Sayed he had warriers too and if we were to go on they would follow us and kill and take the whole of us by degrees or that he had another party or lodge above this [and] that they were able to destroy us.” 

On September 26, Clark took time to describe native customs, writing that Sioux men were fond of “Dress & Show,” and that the women were “perfect Slaves to the Men,” spelling “women” as “Womin.” First Lewis, then Clark, took turns visiting a large native village, with Clark being honored by a ride on a painted buffalo robe, carried by six Sioux men. The explorers also learned that the Sioux held 25 women and boys, prisoners taken in a recent fight with the “Mahas,” during which 75 had been killed, and 40 lodges destroyed. 

Two days later, the explorers were stopped again, with warriors once more refusing to let go of their mooring rope. A chief Lewis and Clark called “The Partisan” demanded a present of tobacco and a flag. Lewis refused, and the Sioux and the explorers were very nearly reduced to violence. Finally, Clark threw tobacco to the chief and then stood to a swivel gun, making it clear he was ready to fire. Farther up the river, another chief told the explorers that the rope had been held by orders of The Partisan, who he called a “Double Spoken man.” 

At a stop at a village farther up the river, curious natives, including three chiefs, came to visit. On October 10, Clark wrote: “Those Indians wer much astonished at my Servent, they never Saw a black man before, all flocked around him & examined him from top to toe, he Carried on the joke [pretending to be a bear] and made himself more turribal than we wished him to doe.” 

On October 12, Clark commented on “a curious custom” of the Sioux and the Arikara, or Rees. They will, he said, “give handsom squars to those whom they wish to Show some acknowledgements to. The Seauex we got clare of without taking their squars, they followed us with Squars two days, The Rickores we put off dureing the time we were at the Towns but 2 (handsom young) Squars were Sent by a man to follow us, they came up this evening, and persisted in their civilities.” Three days later, at an Arikara village, Clark added, “Their womin verry fond of caressing our men &c.”

In the first days of November, the explorers began to settle in for the winter and set to work building cabins and a fort. The Mandan people, who lived nearby, were friendly. Lewis and Clark were introduced to a chief who had cut off both little fingers at the second joint – a custom meant to show grief. Clark also reported that the Mandan and Crow tribes, who he calls the “Ravins,” were allies, writing, “The Ravin Indians have 400 Lodges & about 1200 men, & follow the Buffalow, or hunt for their Subsistence in the plains … & are at war with the Siaux [and] Snake Indians.” 

With the building of “Fort Mandan” well underway, on November 22, Captain Clark was forced to intercede to stop a Mandan husband from killing his wife. She had already been beaten and stabbed three times. 

The husband, Clark reported, 

observed that one of our Serjeants Slept with his wife & if he wanted her he would give her to him, We directed the Serjeant [Ordway] to give the man Some articles, at which time I told the Indian that I believed not one man of the party had touched his wife except the one he had given the use of her for a nite, in his own bed, no man of the party Should touch his squar, or the wife of any Indian, nor did I believe they touch a woman if they knew her to be the wife of another man, and advised him to take his squar home and live happily together in future[.]

 

A few days later, five Mandan hunters were surprised by a party of “Seeoux and Panies,” or Pawnees. One man was killed, two wounded, and nine horses taken. Clark promised to help the Mandan fight back. One of their chiefs assured the explorers that the Pawnees were “liers and bad men.” 

The brutal days of winter on the northern Great Plains soon arrived. On December 8, 1804, several men were reported to be suffering from frostbite, one with his feet, and, as Clark reported, “my Servents feet also frosted & his P---s a little.” His penis (That was a detail I never shared with my students!) 

Five days later, the temperature hit minus-20; and four days after that, at 8 p.m., “the thermometer fell to 74° below the freezing pointe, [while] the Indian Chiefs Sent word that Buffalow was in our Neighbourhood.” 

On December 22, a party of Mandan women, as well as men in women’s clothes, visited the fort to sell corn in exchange for small items. DeVoto notes that these men were “berdashes,” or homosexuals. 

The Indians, he said, believed “that they had been directed by a medicine vision to dress and act as women and they suffered no loss of status.” 

On Christmas, Captains Lewis and Clark gave the men a ration of rum, and three swivel guns were fired, at raising of the flag. 

The explorers were visited by Mandan leaders and ordinary members of the tribe, on January 1, 1805. Captain Clark ordered York to dance “which amused the Croud Verry much.” Then sixteen soldiers visited the nearby Mandan village, taking with them fiddle, tambourine and “Sounden horn.” 

The captains ordered two swivels to be fired, to celebrate the New Year. 

January 5 – Clark spends time drawing a map, based on information received, regarding what lies ahead. He again notes a “curious custom,” the Buffalo Dance, which had just ended after three nights. Young men, he explained, would bring their wives to older men, the wife naked, save for a robe, and the girl “leads him to a convenient place for the business, after which they return to the lodge; if the old man (or a white man) returns to the lodge without gratifying the Man & his wife, he offers her again and again[.]” The husband “begs him not to dispise him & his wife (“We sent a man to this Medisan Dance last night they gave him 4 Girls) all this to cause the buffalo to Come near So that they may Kill them[.]” 

February 11 – Lewis reports, “about five oClock this evening [Sacagawea] was delivered of a fine boy. it is worthy of remark that this was her first child which this woman had boarn, and as is common in such cases her labour was tedious and the pain violent[.]” 

The famous guide Sacagawea.
Her baby was born on February 11, 1805, 
with Captain Lewis helping with the delivery.

The Sioux were still a problem. On February 15, a party of more than a hundred warriors robbed four members of the Corps, who had gone out hunting, taking three horses and knives and a tomahawk. On learning of this affront, Lewis did not hesitate. He set out with 24 men, to pursue the robbers, and several Mandan warriors went along. Unable to locate the offending natives, Lewis returned to the fort soon after. One Mandan chief who had joined him was suffering from snow blindness, “Common at this Season of the year and caused by the reflection of the Sun on the ice & Snow” 

With the return of spring, the Corps of Discovery prepared to continue up the Missouri River. On March 30: Clark could report that he and his men were: “Generally helthy except Venerials Complaints which is verry Common amongst the natives and the men Catch it from them[.]” 

On April 7, Lewis wrote that they were ready to set out, in six small canoes, and two large pirogues, or dugout canoes. 

we were now about to penetrate a country at least two thousand miles in width, on which the foot of civilized man had never trodden; the good or evil it had in store for us was for experiment yet to determine, and these little vessels contain every article by which we are to expect to subsist or defend ourselves. … [I have] the most confident hope of succeeding in a voyage which had formed a da[r]ling project of mine for the last ten years, [and] I could but esteem this moment of my departure as among the most happy of my life. The party are in excellent health and sperits, zealously attached to the enterprise, and anxious to proceed; not a whisper of murmur or discontent to be heard among them, but all act in unison, and with the most perfict harmony. Captain Clark myself the two interpreters and the woman and child sleep in a tent of dressed skins. 

 

Another year-and-a-half would pass before the Corps of Discovery finished its work. They would reach the Oregon coast, winter there among the natives, and return to “the States,” after traveling 8,000 miles. In the process, Lewis and Clark would help solidify a U.S. claim to lands stretching north into what is now Canada and including most of what would one day form Oregon, Washington and Idaho. 

In fact, if you were inclined to take a journey, via the pages of Undaunted Courage, Stephen Ambrose’s great book about Lewis and Clark, you would be amply rewarded for your time. I can only warn: Don’t get all excited about going exploring, like I did, and buy a canoe. You will discover, not adventures, but the fact that transporting a canoe to a drop-off point will mean you need a second car, which you must leave at the spot where you plan to finish. Then you must paddle down the river. Then you must load the canoe again, on the second car, and return to the starting point, where you parked your first car. And you will discover that this process is a giant pain in the ass. 

Next, your canoe will sit on two sawhorses in your backyard for six years, and your amiable wife will not let you forget the $600 you spent.

 

It may be past time to leave the Corps of Discovery behind, but since I knew I would soon be pedaling in grizzly bear country, I might as well sum up the experiences Lewis and Clark had with these monstrous beasts. On April 13, 1805, Lewis admitted that he and his men were 

anxious to meet with some of these bear. the Indians give a very formidable account of the strength and ferocity of this anamal, which they never dare to attack but in parties of six eight or ten persons; and are even then frequently defeated with the loss of one or more of their party. the savages attack this anamal with their bows and arrows and the indifferent guns with which the traders furnish them, [and] with these they shoot with such uncertainty and at so short a distance, that (unless shot thro’ the head or heart wound not mortal) they frequently mis their aim & fall a sacrifice to the bear.

 

Captain Lewis does not say, but I suspect another problem the natives had was the custom of “counting coup.” It was considered a greater proof of courage by many of the tribes, for a warrior to touch a foe in battle – in this case the bear – than to kill that foe outright, shooting at a distance. 

Standing Bear, a Sioux chief, about whom we shall hear more later, once described a fight in which he and a large party of his men surrounded a lone Pawnee warrior. This single man had lost his horse, but instead of killing him with ease, the Sioux decided to count coup. For a time, the Pawnee kept the Sioux at bay, using his bow and arrows. If he was struck from afar by an arrow, he broke it off and taunted the shooter. 

Finally, Standing Bear rode up and asked if anyone had counted coup. Hearing that none had, he charged the Pawnee, who fired an arrow. It glanced off Standing Bear’s shield and stuck in the muscles of his left arm. But he did strike his enemy a blow with his lance. Then a second Sioux, Black Crow, charged, and touched the Pawnee again, but took an arrow in the shoulder. A third rider followed, touched the Pawnee, and received an arrow in the hip. And still, a fourth rider thundered down on the foe, and touched him again – and the tired Pawnee had time only to wheel and hit him with an arrow in the back. 

“We had all gained an honor,” Standing Bear later explained, “but we were all wounded. Now that four of our men had touched the enemy, he was so brave that we withdrew from the field, sparing his life.” 

And if that sounds like an odd way to fight, keep in mind that in this same era, dueling with pistols at twenty paces was the “civilized” style. 

Two Kiowa warriors, with scalps, count coup on a Pawnee.

At any rate, we must soon return to the story of cycling across America. But before we go, we should note that on April 26, 1805, the explorers reached the confluence of the Missouri and Yellowstone rivers, forty miles north of the route I would pedal across North Dakota more than two centuries later. According to Captain Lewis, Sacagawea and his men were “much pleased at having arrived at this long wished for spot.” A dram of rum was “issued to each person,” which “soon produced the fiddle, and they spent the evening with much hilarity, singing & dancing, and seemed as perfectly to forget their past toils, as they appeared regardless of those to come.” 

Not long after, Meriwether Lewis had his chance one morning to count coup on a grizzly. He and another soldier were walking along the river when they stumbled into the path of two bears.  Both explorers fired, and both wounded a bear, one of which fled. The other, Lewis said, “after my firing on him pursued me seventy or eighty yards, but fortunately had been so badly wounded that he was unable to pursue me so closely as to prevent my charging my gun; we again repeated our fire and killed him.” 

Lewis admitted the dead grizzly was a male, “not fully grown,” and estimated to weigh 300 pounds. From this encounter, he drew false conclusions. In the face “of skillful riflemen,” he claimed, these grizzlies “are by no means as formidable or dangerous as they have been represented.” 

Grizzlies can count coup, as well, with tooth or claw. On May 5 the explorers needed ten shots to kill a full-grown bear. When measured, the beast stretched eight feet, seven-and-a-half inches, from nose to hind feet, five feet, ten inches around at the chest, with five talons on each foot, four and 3/8 inches long.

Not to mention teeth and a vice-like bite. 

On May 14, 1805, six of Lewis’s men went out to try to kill a grizzly they had spotted, lying in open ground, not far from the river. Two hunters reserved fire. The other four fired, all shots striking home. Yet “in an instant the monster ran at them with open mouth,” and the two also fired, both striking, and one ball breaking the bear’s shoulder. This, however, “only retarded his motion for a moment” and the beast continued to give chase. Two of the explorers jumped in a canoe and escaped. The rest hid in willows along the riverbank and reloaded. They fired again and struck the bear several more times. 

Now it chased them out of the willows, and 

pursued two of them separately so close that they were obliged to throw aside their guns and pouches and throw themselves into the river altho’ the bank was nearly twenty feet perpendicular; so enraged was this anamal that he plunged into the river only a few feet behind the second man he had compelled [to] take refuge in the water, when one of those who still remained on shore shot him through the head and finally killed him[.]

 

For Lewis and Clark, as for all of us on earth, our journeys can end in unimaginable ways. While working on this story, I read about a murder-suicide that wiped out a family of four, including two sons, on the day the oldest boy was set to graduate from high school. The father killed both boys, his wife, and himself. And I can look out in my backyard any day, and see a massive, dying white oak, with several giant, dead branches hanging overhead, like Nature’s Sword of Damocles. I fear they are just waiting to break free and fall on some poor lawn mower’s head.   

Which would be me. 

I’m cheap, so I still use a push mower, and I’ve calculated that I’ve walked more than 7,000 miles behind lawnmowers during my life. That’s a journey itself, though not a memorable one.

Now that I think of it: I shouldn't have posed my wife
under the tree, either.
(Anne is cool.)

The tree hasn’t got me yet, and so I can report that just before you pedal out of North Dakota, you pass Medora. If you exit I-94 you can visit the southern section of Teddy Roosevelt’s old ranch. Today, there are buffalo aplenty, though they were nearly wiped out by the time Roosevelt first headed West. If you’ve never seen these iconic beasts, be sure to stop. I skipped the sights, because I’d been there before, and passed by, still intent on reaching the Pacific coast.

CLICK ON ANY PICTURES TO EXPAND.

This set of pictures is from a previous trip to 
Teddy Roosevelt National Park, near Medora.

North Dakota Bad Lands. Near Roosevelt's ranch.

Some fool always has to leave a name.

As for the future president, one may wonder how a wealthy New York City fellow, 25, ended up ranching in what was then Dakota Territory. So, we must step back in time to understand the trajectory of his journey in life. At age three, then known to his family as “Teedie,” he suffered from severe asthma attacks, so that his doting father had to carry him about for hours during the night. According to the historian David McCullough, the boy was “beset by chronic stomach trouble, by headaches, by colds, fevers, and a recurring nightmare that a werewolf was coming at him from the bottom of his bed.” 

His worried father, Theodore Sr., encouraged him to build himself up, both intellectually and physically, and as the boy grew, he took up the challenge. He learned to box, for example, and lifted dumbbells for fun. The intellectual pursuits came naturally, and even when out chasing cattle in the Dakotas, young Roosevelt was rarely without his books. 

Eventually, he headed West, on a hunting adventure, shot a buffalo, and went partners in a cattle ranch, which he planned to visit in summers. When Alice, his first wife, died in 1884, at age 22, two days after giving birth to their first child, he was distraught. “I fear he sleeps little for he walks a great deal in the night,” a friend wrote, “and his eyes have the strained red look.” 

Having overcome health problems as a boy, Roosevelt would be known for the rest of his life for boundless energy. Now, in the summer of 1884, he came West again, hoping to ease his sorrow. He set up a ranch of his own and invested a fortune in 4,500 head of cattle. With a strange New York City accent, with his glasses, and big grin, the cowboys he worked with weren’t sure what to think. When he was out of hearing, they might call him “Four Eyes,” or “Old Four Eyes,” but he slowly won their respect. 

McCullough tells the story: 

He was only an average rider and never learned to handle a rope very well, as he would readily admit. But there came a moment one night in a bar across the Montana line in what was then known as Mingusville (present-day Wibaux) when he stood up and in quiet, businesslike fashion flattened an unknown drunken cowboy who, a gun in each hand, had decided to make a laughingstock of him because of his glasses. Theodore knocked him cold with one punch. As Theodore later explained, the man had made the mistake of standing too close to him and with his heels close together.

 

After the “saloon incident” he was looked on with new respect – “it gained him some reputation,” as Bill Sewall said. But more important as time went on, he “did all the regular work of the cowboy,” “worked the same as any man,” asking no favors and never complaining. Sewall, who had known him since he was eighteen, spoke of him in letters home as “a very fair fellow” and “as good a fellow as ever.” “He worked like the rest of us,” Sewall would recall, “and occasionally worked longer than any of the rest of us, for often when we were through with the day’s work he would go to his room and write.”

 

Roosevelt himself, said that for him, life in the West, meant a chance to, “in real life, dwell in our ideal ‘hero land.’” During one hunt, he killed a grizzly bear, which thrilled him, a monster “nearly nine feet in height, weighing about twelve hundred pounds.” Part of his joy stemmed from the fact that there was “enough excitement and fatigue to prevent over much thought.” 

He could sometimes forget the loss of his wife. 

As McCullough explains, Teddy would later write, “There were all kinds of things of which I was afraid at first, ranging from grizzly bears to ‘mean’ horses and gunfighters; but by acting as if I was not afraid I gradually ceased to be afraid.” 

More and more, his men were impressed. One cowboy recalled, “he was in the saddle all of eighteen hours per day…like the rest of us.” Another day, Roosevelt mounted a mean, bucking horse and gave all the other riders “an exhibition of the stuff he was made of.” Hat, glasses, six-shooter,” everything unanchored went flying. “But,” said one witness, “there was no breaking his grip…he stuck.” 

Teddy himself, would later laugh, “I rode him all the way from the tip of his ear to the end of his tail.” 

A horse threw him another time, and he broke a rib. A second horse toppled over backward, and he broke the point of his shoulder, “so that it was some weeks,” he remembered, “before I could raise the arm freely.” On roundups, Roosevelt rode night duty, like any other cowboy. “He would grab a calf or a cow and help drag it right into the fire to be branded,” said another man. During a nighttime stampede, while riding at full speed to try to stop the cattle, Teddy’s horse went over a river embankment in the pitch black. Roosevelt held on as the animal splashed down in the water, and spent most of the rest of the night helping round up the stampeded animals. 

When the sun came up again, he headed all the animals he had back to where they belonged. “After a while I came on a cowboy on foot carrying his saddle on his head,” Roosevelt later explained. “His horse had gone full speed into a tree and killed itself, the man, however, not being hurt.” 

So, if God had a plan, it went something like this:

 

God’s Plan for Teddy Roosevelt. 

1. God gives young Teddy asthma and makes him sickly and weak.

2. God also scares him with werewolf dreams.

3. Teddy decides he must build himself up, eventually gets a pair of boxing gloves, and learns to box.

4. “The Plan” calls for him to marry, but then “The Plan” says Alice Roosevelt must die.

5. Teddy heads West and enjoys a rough life on his ranch and makes friends among the cowboys and ranchers.

6. God makes sure the drunken cowboy does not shoot the future president dead. Instead, Teddy punches out the drunk. (See #3, above.)

7. Also, Teddy does not get mashed flat during a stampede.

8. William McKinley, a Republican, is elected President of the United States in 1896, with Garret Hobart as his vice president.

9. On February 15, 1898, the U.S.S. Maine is blown up in Havana harbor – cause unknown – and 268 sailors are killed.

10. Those sailors’ journeys end abruptly, which you could argue is still part of “The Plan” for Teddy, although not a great plan for them.

11. The newspapers, particularly those owned by William Randolph Hearst, stir up war sentiment, (see: Yellow Journalism) blame the blast on Spain, and the United States declares war.

12. This is before cable news; but sensationalism sells in 1898, just as it does now. Today, even Sean Hannity and CNN are part of God’s plan.

13. Roosevelt organizes his own fighting unit. It will include many of the cowboys and westerners he met in the Dakota Territory, as well as friends from his student days at Harvard. That unit will come to be known as the “Rough Riders.”

14. Later, the “Rough Riders” charge up San Juan Hill, with Teddy in the lead, and become famous heroes in the fight to wrest Cuba from Spanish control. Spanish soldiers repeatedly fire at Colonel Roosevelt but all miss.

15. God’s plan for Teddy continues to play out because He makes sure the Spanish are all lousy shots.

16. On November 21, 1899, Hobart, the 24th vice president of the United States dies. Too bad for him! No one has heard of him since.

17. Roosevelt, now viewed as a war hero, is chosen to be William McKinley’s running mate in 1900, when he runs for and wins a second term.

18. On September 6, 1901, Leon Czolgosz shoots McKinley. The president lingers for eight days and then dies of gangrene. Gangrene is just another element of “The Plan.”

19. Czolgosz is later hanged. That really sucks, for him.

20. Alice’s husband, and Edith Roosevelt’s husband, too, because Teddy has remarried by this point) becomes the 26th President of the United States.

Roosevelt leads the charge up San Juan Hill.

This painting shows Lewis and Clark on the rainy Pacific Coast in 1806.

Karl Bodmer, a Swiss-French artist, traveled up the Missouri River in 1832-1834.
He painted accurate scenes of Native American life.

(I took pictures of the pictures at the Fort Mandan museum.) 

Getting close for a shot.

A buffalo awaits death after a hunt.

Fight to the finish.

Lewis and Clark also had run-ins with grizzlies.
A cross-county bicycler was killed by a grizzly
while camping near Ovando, Montana, in 2021.

Preparing for a game of lacrosse.

Montana and Glacier National Park. 

__________ 

“They made us many promises, more than I can remember, but they never kept but one; they promised to take our land, and they took it.” 

Red Cloud, war leader of the Lakota

__________ 

 

WHEN I TAUGHT in Loveland, Ohio, near Cincinnati, I was surprised to learn that most of my students had never been to Yellowstone or Glacier National Park or even crossed the Mississippi River with their families. I used to tell them, “If you don’t listen to anything else I say this year, listen to this. Make sure you drive across the United States at least once (or pedal) in your life. Put it on your bucket list.” 

I don’t really like that term, but during my 2024 ride, a gentleman in a restaurant asked if my journey was on my “bucket list.” I was having a bad day in the heat, and replied, “Maybe my ‘kick the bucket’ list.” 

We both had a good laugh, at least. 

Good day, bad day, there are great swaths of Montana with few people – and few cars – so, safe riding. 

By this time, I was pedaling a route used by all kinds of cross-country cyclists, almost all of whom were heading east. Except for the heat, I was enjoying myself and getting close to achieving one of my three main goals. I wanted to ride up and over Logan Pass, in Glacier National Park, on the Going to the Sun Highway. 

On July 16, I stopped in Winnett, Montana, intent on finding a place to get lunch. The only café in town wasn’t open, and with Winnett’s dwindling population, you couldn’t be sure it would ever open again. The heat was now oppressive most afternoons, so I settled on a bench, in front of the Winnett General Store, and watched locals come and go. The ranchers who pulled up in pickup trucks all knew each other, nosurprise in a town of 209 people. One elderly woman (strange that I describe others as “elderly,” but not myself) stopped to inquire what I was doing. 

“Riding across the United States,” I explained. 

I asked about Winnett, and she told me she had grown up back East, and I wondered how she ended up here, in the county seat of Petroleum County. She had lost her first husband, she said, had met a rancher (who was visiting friends back East, I think), and had come out to Montana to start anew – a daring pioneer gray hair herself, but without the covered wagon and eight-oxen team. 

“I’m known in town as the woman who said ‘maybe,’” she explained. At a recent dance, she continued, the rancher had asked her to marry. 

“Maybe,” she replied. The word spread quickly, the kind of story that would spark gossip in any small town. 

I hadn’t thought about writing up my trip as a story of all kinds of journeys yet and failed to ask for particulars – and what she did tell me I failed to write down. But I did wonder if she was leaning toward “yes,” or “no.” 

She smiled and shrugged, went inside to shop, and then offered a cheery “good luck” when she came out, and waved goodbye as she drove off. 

I have pedaled through all kinds of small towns on my trips, and many are shrinking, some more dramatically than others. Not only Winnett, but Petroleum County itself are on wobbly legs. At its peak in the 1920s, after discovery of oil on Cat Creek, three thousand people called this area home. The county was created in 1925, and for the next few years its wells produced 2.2 million barrels of high-grade crude annually. At an air-conditioned rest area, where I stopped later that day, I saw a description that said only 527 people in Petroleum remained. 

An internet check since I returned home offered a glimmer of optimism, with population said to have “ballooned” to 554 in 2023. 

A set of quadruplets would really help! 

The county is 1,674 square miles in area, a third larger than Rhode Island, with just three lonesome human beings per square mile, a reality hard to fathom if you live in a city or suburb like Loveland, back East. 

As a former history teacher, journeys, for individuals and for entire societies, continue to intrigue me, even more so as my personal journey lengthens on one end and shortens on the other. I listened when the “Maybe Lady,” who admitted she was 79, told me about a benefactor of Winnett, who had gone on to great success, and donated millions for a community center. I had to look up details later, but Larry Catrell and his wife Kathi, had provided $4.5 million, both for construction and staffing of the center, which helped keep town and county alive. Bruno and Evelyne Hill Betti also played a role. As a girl, Evelyne had “spent a great deal of her time daydreaming while riding her horse to school, learning the value of working hard, and playing with her brothers in the hills around Sand Springs in Garfield County.” 

The question, to my mind, was how we ended up where we were on that hot July day. And that would go for us all, you, me, Sky (more on her in a moment), the “Maybe Lady,” Kamala Harris, and Donald J. Trump. 

Four months later, the county would give Mr. Trump a second chance to lead the nation. In Petroleum County he would pile up 284 votes, where only 37 would be cast for Kamala. That meant 87.65% of voters in this corner of Montana had preferred a leader I considered a menace to the Constitution. 

Indeed, it marked the fourth consecutive election where Petroleum County went red by more than 80%. 

Fat books will be written about how our great nation reached such a point, and fifty years from now, when I am long gone (if not cryogenically preserved), history will show whether my fears were merited. But for current purposes, I’ll limit my focus to Winnett and Petroleum Co., and leave the story of chief executives, good, bad, or indifferent, to future students of history. 

Party shoes for a Lakota lady.

 

Start with the indigenous peoples who once ruled the Great Plains. There was a time when Lakota and Crow, Cheyenne and Pawnee, Arapaho and Nez Perce roamed the land. Unfortunately, the tribes often proved to be bitter foes, no different than the French and English in the time of Joan of Arc – albeit less inclined to burn duly-convicted witches at the stake. Both my mother and father were born in Akron, Ohio, in 1915, four years before Evelyne Hill debuted in Miles City, Montana. Both of my parents graduated from Akron University, in an era when only 5% of students nationwide, and only 3.8% of women, made it that far. Evelyne’s family moved to Winnett, where she grew up riding her horse, “Old Darky,” to a “one-room schoolhouse built on the banks of Lodge Pole Creek.” After she moved to Seattle, Evelyne and Bruno Betti met, and were married in 1941, whereas my parents married in 1942, not long after my father finished Officers’ Candidate School, and was assigned to the U.S. Army Air Corps. Later, Evelyn and Bruno settled down in Richland, Washington, five from the confluence of the Columbia River and the Snake. 

“After several years,” I learned, Mr. and Mrs. Betti “returned to the Seattle area and were early pioneers of Hawks Prairie, where they purchased a 440-acre Christmas tree farm in 1949.” According to her obituary (she died in 2007, at a ripe old age), Evelyne “used her design talents to design buildings, the first being a slaughterhouse for their pig-raising operation.” 

If you have ever pedaled past a pig farm of any size larger than one pig, you know how malodorous that business always is. So, I am happy to say my father and mother never dabbled in pig farming. 

Instead, I have photos of my father in 1941, looking slim and trim during officers’ training, standing next to a cavalry-style guidon. He’s even wearing cavalry-style pants, as if his future might involve fighting Nazis while riding a horse.

My father, James R. Viall, is at right.

 

As for Winnett, and Montana, I knew that an earlier version of the U.S. Army first tried to subdue the Lakota and their allies in the years before and after the Civil War. I also knew that the soldiers could rely on Crow scouts to help, although a Lakota leader named Red Cloud won a war against the United States in 1868. Not for the last time, during what became known as “Red Cloud’s War,” did the Lakota destroy a force of U.S. soldiers, during the “Fetterman Massacre.” 

Captain William J. Fetterman was 33, on the day that he died, after he and his men were lured into ambush by young Crazy Horse, 26, also later a famous war chief. The soldiers had been guarding Fort Phil Kearny, as part of a plan to build a road, the Bozeman Trail, across native lands. The Indians had spent the previous summer and fall harassing supply trains and shooting at wood-cutting parties. 

Then, on the morning of December 21, 1866, ten hand-picked warriors, including Crazy Horse, attacked a wood-cutting detail. Captain Fetterman led out a force of 80 men, some mounted, some on foot, all setting out on their last earthly journey. Whenever the soldiers grew wary, and slowed their advance, “Crazy Horse would dismount and pretend to adjust his bridle or examine his pony’s hooves. Bullets whined all around him,” Dee Brown has written in Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. 

Still, Fetterman kept coming. As far as he could see, there were only ten Indians, and he was anxious to teach them a lesson. 

Hidden in the hills nearby were as many as two thousand Lakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors, and they soon sprang a trap. Armed with only a bow and a lance, White Bull, one of many who proved his courage that day, charged in close to a dismounted cavalryman, who fired at him with a carbine. White Bull later drew a picture of the part he played, showing himself “in a red war cape, firing an arrow into the soldier’s heart and cracking him over the head with his lance to count first coup.” 

Not one of Fetterman’s men survived. The Lakota weren’t known for taking prisoners and even a reader today will hope that none of the wounded soldiers were taken alive. Colonel Henry B. Carrington, who commanded the fort, would later describe the appalling mutilations carried out on the battlefield by the victors. He described limbs hacked off, soldiers disemboweled, and “the private parts severed and indecently placed on the persons” of the dead.

Mutilated soldiers from a different battle.

Barbarism in war: Crazy Horse would be shocked.

"Blood," Robert Frost once wrote, "has been harder to dam back than water."

 

 

“Automatic or wooden men.” 

If that sounds terrible – because it was – Fetterman had seen worse horrors while serving throughout the Civil War. That included leading a regiment at the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain. It was there, in the summer of 1864, that other foolish decisions made by other, higher-ranking officers, including Maj. Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman, led to futile attacks on entrenched Confederate positions. When Sherman finally gave up, 3,000 young men in Yankee blue were wounded or dead. 

Sam Watkins, a member of the First Tennessee Infantry, who survived not only that battle, but four bloody years in Confederate gray, never forgot what he witnessed on the slopes of Kennesaw, as Union brigades advanced until fighting raged at point-blank range. “A solid line of blazing fire right from the muzzles of the Yankee guns [was] being poured right into our very faces,” he wrote later, “singeing our hair and clothes, the hot blood of our dead and wounded spurting on us.” 

“Hell had broke loose in Georgia, sure enough,” remembered another Rebel.  

As Sam explained, the attackers had been assigned a hopeless task. For Watkins and the rest of the men in the First Tennessee, 

All that was necessary was to load and shoot. In fact, I will ever think that the reason they did not capture our works was the impossibility of living men passing over the bodies of their dead. The ground was piled up with one solid mass of dead and wounded Yankees. I learned afterwards from the burying squad that in some places they were piled up like cord wood, twelve deep. 

 

Watkins, himself, fired 120 times. His gun grew hot, and at times his powder “flashed” in the barrel before he could reload. His commander fell, shot through the head, “only wounded, and one side paralyzed.” But he did survive. Meanwhile, the Yankees “seemed to walk up and take death as coolly as if they were automatic or wooden men, and our boys did not shoot for the fun of the thing.” 

When Sherman’s units finally gave up the attack, Sam had time to study his comrades. Almost every man in his Company H was wounded or had bullets through their clothing. Most were soaked in sweat, others covered in blood. Many vomited from sunstroke. Sam himself barely cheated death. When a Yankee was about to shoot him at close range a friend grabbed the enemy soldier’s gun barrel. Receiving “the whole contents in his hand and arm,” he died instead. 

Sam’s journey continued. He married in 1865, and lived until 1901, almost long enough to learn that Orville and Wilbur Wright had taken flight. Crazy Horse went on to play a pivotal role in the Battle of the Little Big Horn, where George Armstrong Custer and more than 225 of his men were also snuffed out. After that fight, the U.S. Army redoubled efforts to crush Lakota resistance. The famous Sitting Bull led his people north to temporary safety in Canada – not yet a 51st state. Crazy Horse also did his best to keep his band out of harm’s way. During the winter of 1876-1877, soldiers managed to find and attack their village, and though most escaped, their lodges were burned, their ponies rounded up and shot, and they were left hungry and cold, with no place to go. At one point, he agreed to let any of his followers who wished to surrender to do so. But when eight of his men approached a U.S. fort under a white flag, Crow warriors, long sworn enemies to the Lakota, poured out of the gate to attack and only three of the eight survived. Finally, having run out of ammunition, with his women and children starving and babies freezing to death in their mothers’ arms, Crazy Horse surrendered. 

Though he tried to dissuade them, some of his younger warriors quickly joined a force of soldiers heading north in pursuit of the Nez Perce, under Chief Joseph. Crazy Horse was so disgusted that he told his people to scatter and tried to escape himself. He was captured, taken to a fort, and led away by regular soldiers and Indian “policemen,” also employed by the United States. These police included Little Big Man, who had once fought bravely at Crazy Horse’s side. 

The prisoner was now marched away: 

They walked past a soldier with a bayoneted rifle on his shoulder, and then they were standing in the doorway of a building. The windows were barred with iron, and he could see men behind the bars with chains on their legs. It was a trap for an animal, and Crazy Horse lunged away like a trapped animal, with Little Big Man holding on to his arm. The scuffling went on for a few seconds, someone shouted a command, and then the soldier guard, Private William Gentles, thrust his bayonet deep into Crazy Horse’s abdomen.

 

The great Lakota leader died that night, September 5, 1877, at the age of thirty-five. One man’s journey ended cruelly, and too soon. Back in Ohio, another journey had just begun. My grandfather, Rutherford Hayes Viall, named after the newly inaugurated nineteenth President of the United States, was, on the day Crazy Horse died, a squalling infant less than four months old. During his lifetime he would have the chance to talk to Civil War veterans and live long enough to see his second son, my father James, discharged early from the U.S. Army, having never seen combat during World War II. My father was thought to have an enlarged heart, and it was believed it would be unsafe for him to fly. He would live a long life, dying at age 84, his heart giving out only after several more decades of dependable service. And before my grandfather died, he would be ablet to celebrate the end of the worst war in human history, after B-29 “Superfortresses” dropped the first two atomic bombs – and, so far, the last – on unsuspecting Japanese.

A memorial to Crazy Horse will eventually show him pointing toward the Black Hills.

 

As for the town of Winnett, it was in 1859 that that story begins. Walter Winnett, born in Canada, was seven when Fetterman died, and is said to have come to Montana in the early 1870s, to build a new life. Local folklore holds that he was captured by Sitting Bull’s band in 1873, and that the teen lived with the Lakota for several years. True or not, by 1883, Walter had established a sheep and cattle ranch, prospered, and built a three-story house on the site of what would become the town that still (precariously) carries his name. Walter is credited with starting the first school in Winnett, in his own home, running his own sawmill, and at one point assembling a herd of 500-600 horses. Then, when oil was discovered, he went into that business too. 

As for the Lakota, they would have been better off by far had they scalped young Walter and rubbed out every white, black, or yellow settler who dared place ten toes on Montana soil in those early years. But their journey was trending toward disaster, with waves of invaders (if that rings a bell) encroaching on their lands. The Homestead Act, passed in 1862, had a profound impact, guaranteeing that settlers could take possession of 160 acres, free. 

Or, as on land agency promised, Montana was a region, “Where Land is Free as Church Bells’ Chime.” 

And for a time, the population of Winnett grew steadily, unless you were a member of the Lakota tribe. 

Life on the Great Plains, so far north, as Winnett is, was hard, and droughts were a problem, and winters could be brutal for man and beast. The lowest temperature ever recorded in Petroleum County was –43° F, at Mosby, on January 24, 1969. Even grasshopper infestations made farming hard, and Walter himself left town after his wife died, during the Dust Bowl era, and moved to California. There, in 1943, in the middle of World War II, he finally passed away. 

 

What will the climate look like in 2096? 

As for me, I was sitting on a bench, in Winnett, killing an hour or two, on a brutally hot day, and going back inside periodically, to get more to eat and drink. 

Finally, another bicycle rider, clearly loaded for a long ride, rolled up in front of the store and stopped. 

It is expected that long-distance riders will salute each other, and share wisdom earned during their rides, and at my age, it is always a pleasure to meet young riders, whose journeys have many years left to go. In this case, Sky was pedaling east, also seeking respite from the heat. We were happy to have an excuse to sit and talk and not pedal and sweat. We watched a fresh wave of ranchers drive up, greet, and go inside for supplies. One man had one of those big round bales of hay in the bed of his truck, and I told Sky I had been wondering how much a bale like, which I had been seeing by the hundreds, that was worth. 

We both offered guesses but never thought to ask. 

Sky was exactly one-third my age, a daring young woman, I thought, to ride solo across the USA. She had a sunny disposition and told me that just after high school she had completed the Appalachian Trail. I told her I had cycled across the country twice before, but said there were days on this third trip, where I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep pedaling, this day being one. 

“I hope you keep going,” she replied. “I quit walking the Trail after I made it two-thirds of the way and went home. Then, I realized I couldn’t quit and went back and finished the hike.” 

She smiled at one point and said I would be her “role model,” knowing that I was still pedaling at 75, and we joked about her riding across the country again in 2074. It was even more fun to learn that Sky had grown up in Hyde Park, a Cincinnati neighborhood which I knew well, and gone to Walnut Hills, a public high school, but one where students must test to gain admittance. So, she was clearly bright, and a joy to talk to. She mentioned that she had been recovering on hot days by drinking chicken broth – which sounded like a solid plan – and after she said she had to take off, I lingered a little, before going inside to buy a jar of chicken bouillon cubes. 

Before we parted, I did think to ask, “I don’t mean to be insulting, but do you worry about riding alone, as a young woman? Do you carry mace, or a weapon?” 

She said she felt safe, and “no,” and when I got home I learned that she had made it to Seal Harbor, Maine, on August 22, ending her first ride across the U.S. at the same spot where I had begun my second and third. That would mean she pedaled 2500 miles over the next 38 days, 66 per day, if she didn’t take rest days. 

Most riders do. I am too stubborn and too dumb. 

I did check later and found out that one of those giant round bales can be worth as much as $1,000. 

A more important question, one that had been troubling me long before I met Sky, was what the world might be like when my three grandchildren were my age. Ellora will be 75 in 2088. My youngest daughter’s twins, Story and Prosper, will be 75 in 2096.

Sky and I crossed routes in Winnett, Montana, pop. 209.

 

Scientists will tell you, if you have ears to listen, that the years, 2013-2024, matching Ellora’s life span, are the hottest ever recorded, with 2024, globally, being the hottest of all, and 2023 having held title briefly, until surpassed the year Sky set out to pedal across the continent. I also knew from reading, that water tables in Montana were falling as ground water was pumped, both for agriculture and human consumption. Climate change also meant that streams where trout thrive were warming, with water flow lower, meaning recreational fishing – big business in Big Sky Country – was beginning to suffer. The same problem with declining water tables was showing up in Kansas, which sits with parts of seven other states atop the Ogalla Aquifer, and in Sudan, in Africa, as well as Northern India, where water from critically important Himalayan snow-melt is beginning to dwindle. In Kansas, in December 2023, Joe Newland, the president of the Kansas Farm Bureau, told a reporter that the situation was dire.  “You lose land value, you lose tax base, and quite frankly you lose the way of life,” he said. 

Unless something was done. 

Unfortunately, the dangers we all face on our journeys are many and complex, individually, as societies, and as a human race. You can be wiped out while pedaling along Montana 200, by a pickup truck driver carrying a large round bale of hay and angrily texting his girlfriend, who just dumped his dumb ass. You can live in Arizona, where environmental disaster may already beckon. In Phoenix, where population has quadrupled since the day I was born, water tables have fallen between 300 and 500 feet. Longer “straws” are now required to reach water, and as more people add straws to the city “drink,” one person sucking up water may mean another person’s straw stops working at all. In Florida, over-pumping of fresh water has meant that salt water begins to intrude, and Tampa has begun building a desalinization plant, in hopes of meeting public demand. Along the coasts, where big cities sit close to shore, draining ground water can lead to land subsidence. Parts of Houston today sit ten feet lower than they once did. 

In fact, another way to look at the journeys we all take on the only planet (so far) where we know we can, is to ponder population. It is estimated that the world’s population reached a billion in 1804, when Thomas Jefferson was our third president, and his slave Sally Hemmings was getting pregnant – by him. Lewis and Clark were enjoying a winter respite from their arduous journey, at Fort Mandan, in what is now North Dakota, and their native guide Sacagawea did her part, adding to the ranks of humanity, when she gave birth to a son. Population reached two billion in 1927, when my wife’s father was fourteen, doubled again, to four billion, in 1974, the year before I began teaching, hit five billion in 1987, when my third child, Sarah, was born, hit six billion in 1999, the year Sky made a bow, seven in 2011, and in 2023, topped eight billion. 

So, humanity’s journey continues to no certain end. History does show, clearly, that humanity blunders along at least as often as it charts a clear path toward progress – not to mention periods of grim regression. We don’t talk much now about a nuclear holocaust, but we would be foolish to believe it cannot happen, most likely by mistake. Entire civilizations have collapsed for a myriad of reasons, and as I tell my wife, none of those civilizations saw their demise coming. Or, if they did, they realized too late. The Hittites and Assyrians disappeared almost without a trace, until modern archaeology helped rebuild their forgotten pasts. The decline and fall of the Roman empire is legendary. The Mayans succumbed, c. 700 A.D., likely due to environmental degradation. 

Very possibly exacerbated by drought. 

 

“After this ceremony was over, somehow we felt safer to go on.” 

Certainly, the Lakota learned, in terrible fashion, that a way of life is no more guaranteed than we are to complete our next breath. Records are unclear, but either four years, or five – or eight – after Walter Winnett was born, a Lakota child, later to be known as Luther Standing Bear, was born. His mother was “Pretty Face,” and his father was a great warrior named “Standing Bear.” 

As Luther would later remember, his mother “was considered the most beautiful young woman among the Sioux at the time she married my father.” 

The Lakota, or “Sioux,” as they were more commonly known in those days, were, at that time, the lords of the Great Plains, and his father often joined raiding parties to steal horses or engage in combat with other tribes. He came home from one fight against the Pawnees, leaning on two other members of the war party, having been badly wounded, as Luther explained. Yet, he would later hear his father humbly admit that he had killed seven of the enemy. 

Known when young by the name “Plenty Kill,” in honor of his father’s prowess, Luther described the idyllic world in which he grew up. His people picked up and moved villages as necessity required, often to follow the vast buffalo herds, which blackened the Plains. When the village had to move, Luther said, “The very young babies rode in a travois drawn by a very gentle pony, which the mother of the baby led riding on her own pony. We bigger boys and girls always rode our own ponies, and we had plenty of fun chasing birds and hunting, until we came to the new camping-ground.” 

On the day of a move, 

The old men of the tribe would start out first on foot. They were always in the front, and we depended on them. They were experienced and knew the lay of the land perfectly. If the start was made before sunrise, it was beautiful to see the golden glow of the coming day. Then the old men sat down to wait for the sunrise, while the rest of us stood about, holding our horses. One of the men would light the pipe, and, as the sun came over the horizon, the entire tribe stood still, as the ceremony to the Great Spirit began. It was a solemn occasion, as the old man held the bowl of the pipe in both hands, and pointed the stem toward the sky, then toward the east, south, west, and north, and lastly, to Mother Earth. An appeal was made during this ceremony; the men smoked, after which the pipe was put away. Sometimes there would be something to eat on these occasions. After this ceremony was over, somehow we felt safer to go on. 

 

On hot days, once the village had relocated, the women would loosen the bottoms of the tipis, and brace them up with forked sticks, to create more room, and more shade, and to allow for a breeze. 

When the tipis were kept nice and clean, it was very pleasant to stroll through a great camp when all the tipi bottoms were raised.

 

During the heated portion of the day, our parents all sat around in the shade, the women making moccasins, leggins, and other wearing apparel, while the men were engaged in making rawhide ropes for their horses and saddles. Some made hunting arrows, while others made shields and war-bonnets. All this sort of work was done while the inmates of the camp were resting.

 

We children ran around and played, having all the fun we could. In the cool of the evening, after the meal was over, all the big people sat outside, leaning against the tipis. Sometimes there would be foot races or pony races, or a ball game [like lacrosse]. There was plenty we could do for entertainment. Perhaps two or three of the young men who had been on the war-path would dress up in their best clothes, fixing up their best horses with Indian perfume, and tie eagle feathers to the animal’s tails and on their own foreheads. When they were “all set” to “show off,” they would parade around the camp in front of each tipi – especially where there were pretty girls.

 

We smaller children sat around and watched them. I recall how I wished that I was big enough so I could ride a perfumed horse, all fixed up, and go to see a pretty girl. But I knew that was impossible until I had been on the war-path, and I was too young for that. …

 

When the shades of night fell, we went to sleep, unless our parents decided to have a game of night ball. If they did, then we little folks tried to remain awake to watch the fun. We were never told that we must “go to bed,” because we never objected or cried about getting up in the morning. When we grew tired of playing, we went to our nearest relative and stayed at their tipi for the night, and next morning went home.

 

In winter, when heavy snow fell, it would bank up around the outside of the tipi, which helped keep those inside warm. “On nights when there was a cold, sleeting rain,” Luther added, “it was very pleasant to lie in bed and listen to the storm beating on the sides of the tipi. It even put us to sleep.” 

For fun, he explained, the children would make horses out of adobe mud and pick up dried buffalo chips – and these would represent the buffalo in their games. If you wanted a yellow horse, you peeled the bark off a cottonwood stick. If you wanted a spotted horse, you pecked at the bark. Whenever the girls were allowed in the game, they would make entire villages of cottonwood leaves and sticks. 

Then we boys would make-believe send out a scout, and after he returned we would all start with our imitation horses to get the buffalo. We would play by the hour at this game of chasing the buffalo.

 

While we were getting the cottonwood leaves for the girls, we would sometimes break off a forked stick, and they would use this to make a doll. These dolls were not very handsome affairs, as they had no arms; but when they were wrapped in a piece of buckskin, they look good to us Indian children. 

Lakota mothers also made much fancier dolls for the children.
Children, across all cultures and times, do not change.

Dolls found in slave quarters at The Hermitage.
(1830s)

Same idea: Dolls cross all cultural lines.
(2016)

It was in this world that Luther Standing Bear grew up, saying, “Such was the life I lived. We had everything provided for us by the Great Spirit above. Is it any wonder that we grew fat with contentment and happiness?”  

In those days – before gold was discovered in 1874 – the Lakota enjoyed spending time in the Black Hills. “There were springs of clear water and plenty of wood,” Luther recalled. “Nature seemed to hold us in her arms.” 

Like many boys and girls, in all times and places, Luther saw his mother disappear one day, in a Lakota-style divorce. She simply moved out, without explanation, and went to live with her parents. 

Standing Bear soon introduced two new wives – sisters – to his son. 

While telling his story to a white author in 1927, Luther made it clear that his people had been happy. They lived simply, sometimes using turtle shells as plates and carving mountain goat horns for spoons. They feasted on buffalo meat in the summer and survived on dried meat, sometimes pounded into “Indian hash,” which included choke cherries, and buffalo grease, during frigid winters on the northern Great Plains. 

“At this time,” he said, “we knew nothing of coffee or bread. Our entire bill of fare consisted of meat and soup. 

 

“It made me feel ashamed of my marksmanship.” 

WHEN HE WAS FOURTEEN, Luther, by then living on a reservation, went off one day, with others, to look for buffalo. “In spite of the fact that we received plenty of beef and rations from the Government, we were hungry for buffalo meat, and we wanted the skins. So one day we left the agency without a permit.” 

The night before, his father instructed him as follows: 

“Whatever you do, watch the buffalo closely. If the one you are after is running straight ahead and not turning, then you can get in very close, and you will stand a good chance to shoot it in the heart. But if you observe the buffalo to be looking at you from the corner of its eye, then look out! They’re very quick and powerful. They can get their horns under your horse and toss him high in the air, and you might get killed.” 

 

Luther’s father continued: 

“If your pony is not fast enough to catch up with the buffalo, the best thing you can do is to shoot an arrow right behind the small ribs. Perhaps it will reach the heart. If the buffalo runs down a hill or into a bank, then you have another chance. Shoot at the joint of the hips, then your buffalo will sit down and you can take your time to kill it.” 

 

He added, finally, “Keep your eyes open! In the beginning there will be lots of dust, but after you pass through that, it will be clear, and you will be able to see where you are going.” 

From there, Luther picked up the story, admitting that he was, as we could probably guess, greatly excited. “I rode a little black mare, a very fine runner that could cover the ground like a deer,” he said. 

Eventually, a herd was spotted: 

At the top of the hill, all the hunters turned their horses loose, and the animals started in running like the wind! I whipped up my little black mare and nearly got ahead of the others. Soon I was mixed up in the dust and could see nothing ahead of me. All I could hear was the roar and rattle of the hoofs of the buffalo as they thundered along. My pony shied this way and that, and I had to hold on for dear life.

 

For a time I did not even try to pull an arrow from my quiver, as I had all I could do to take care of myself. I knew if my pony went down and one of those big animals stepped on me, it would be my last day on earth. I then realized how helpless I was there in all that dust and confusion, with those ponderous buffalo all around me. The sound of their hoofs was frightening. My pony ran like the wind, while I just clung to her mane; but presently we came out of the dust.

 

Then I observed what my father had told me previously. I was quite a bit ahead of the buffalo now, and when they caught sight of me, they started running in two different directions. When I looked at those big animals and thought of trying to kill one of them, I realized how small I was. I was really afraid of them. Then I thought about what my stepmother had said to me about bringing her a kidney and a skin, and the feeling that I was a man, after all, came back to me; so I turned my pony toward the bunch which was running north. There was no dust now, and I knew where I was going.

 

I was all alone, and I was determined to chase them, whether I killed one or not. By this time I could hear shots fired by some of the hunters who carried guns, and I knew they were killing some. So I rode on after this small bunch, and when I dashed behind them, I pulled out one of my arrows and shot into the middle of them. I did not even know where my arrow went, and was just thinking of quitting when I observed a young heifer running slower than the others.

 

This encouraged me so I whipped up my pony again and took after her. As I came close, she stopped and turned. Then she started running in another direction, but I saw she was losing fast. She was not as big as the others, so I was not afraid. I made-up my mind I was going to kill that buffalo if it took all the arrows in my quiver.

 

I rode right up alongside the buffalo just as my father had instructed me. Drawing an arrow from my quiver, and holding to my pony with all the strength of my legs, I fitted the arrow and let drive with all my strength. I expected to kill the buffalo right quick, but the arrow went into the neck – and I thought I had taken such good aim! But the buffalo only shook her head and kept on running. I again caught up with her, and let another arrow loose, which struck near the heart. Although it was not fired with sufficient strength to kill at once, I saw that she was fast weakening and running much slower. Then I pulled my third arrow and fired again. This went into the heart. I began to think that the buffalo had all the nine lives of a cat, and was going to prove about as hard as a cat to kill, when I saw blood running from her nose. Then I knew she would have to drop pretty soon. I shot my fourth arrow into her, and she staggered and dropped over on her side, and was soon dead. So I had killed my first buffalo. 

 

He knew his father had once dispatched two buffalo with one arrow, shooting through the first, retrieving it, and then using it to kill a second. “As I stood there thinking of this, it made me feel ashamed of my marksmanship. I began to think of pulling all the arrows out but one. In fact, I had started to do this, when a remark that my father had once made to me came into my head. 

“‘Son, always remember that a man who tells lies is never liked by anybody.’ So, instead of trying to cheat, I told the truth; and it made me feel happier.”

Buffalo skulls: a great slaughter commenced.

 

But the Lakota way of life – the way of all the Plains tribes – was doomed. Each year, starting in 1873, white hunters and a few black hunters began to slaughter buffalo by the millions, all to supply a huge demand for buffalo robes. 

In fact, Luther admitted, “This was the first and last buffalo I ever killed, and it took five arrows to do the job.” 

In 1876, the Lakota hunted farther south, in Nebraska, hoping to find the great herds they remembered. 

What they found instead angered them: 

Our scouts, who had gone out to locate the buffalo, came back and reported that the plains were covered with dead bison. These had been shot by the white people. The Indians never were such wasteful, wanton killers of this noble game animal. We kept moving, fully expecting soon to run across plenty of live buffalo; but we were disappointed. I saw the bodies of hundreds of dead buffalo lying about, just wasting, and the odor was terrible.

 

Now we began to see white people living in dugouts, just like wild bears, but without the long snout. These people were dirty. They had hair all over their faces, heads, arms, and hands. This was the first time many of us had ever seen white people, and they were very repulsive to us. None of us had ever seen a gorilla, else we might have thought that Darwin was right concerning these people.

 

Outside these dugouts we saw bale after bale of buffalo skins, all packed, ready for market. These people were taking away the source of the clothing and lodges that had been provided for us by our Creator, and they were letting our food lie on the plains to rot. They were to receive money for all this. While the Indians were to receive only abuse. We thought these people must be devils, for they had no sympathy. 

 

Luther explained the anger his people felt: 

Why not look at it this way: Suppose a man had a farm with lots of cattle, and it was thought a good idea to build a town on his farm. Should you consider it right if other people had gone in and shot and killed all the farmer’s cattle without paying him for the slaughter? No, you would not consider such a proposition fair or just.

 

 

No choice but to “travel the white man’s road.” 

Yet it was just such a situation that the Lakota now saw unfolding. According to his son, Standing Bear always tried to do what was best for his people, and by 1879, he had concluded that there were too many settlers for the Lakota to hold back. His people would have no choice but to “travel the white man’s road.” His father built a store on the reservation, and Luther, then still known as “Plenty Kill,” remembered seeing his father and uncle working on the roof, in “fifty-fifty” clothes, looking half native, and half white, with his father sporting a derby. That year, the boy was sent East to attend the Carlisle Indian Industrial School, for native children. 

According to Luther, his father understood 

that fighting would not get the Indians anywhere, and that the only recourse was to learn the white man’s ways of doing things, to get the same education, and thus be in condition to stand up for his rights. My father was a smart man and he looked ahead, and so right here was his turning point. 

 

Luther described a visit his father made later to the school, during which he presented his son with a few silver dollars and a gold watch. “When any of the boys or girls looked at me,” Luther later admitted, “I always took out that watch and looked at it, imagining I could tell the time!” 

The founder of the Carlisle school, General Richard Henry Pratt, had firm ideas regarding the future of the native peoples. If they continued to “make war,” or “defend themselves,” depending on who phrases it, Pratt believed they would be exterminated. His students would have to adapt, would have to become “white” in their ways, and then serve as examples for others. 

“Kill the Indian, to save the man,” Pratt liked to say, by way of explaining his school’s reason for being. 

To make his point clear, Pratt invited Standing Bear to visit Boston, New York, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Washington. Luther did not go along, “but a mixed blood named Stephen Moran accompanied him as interpreter. My father was greatly pleased that he was given an opportunity to visit these great cities.” 

On return, Standing Bear offered fresh advice. 

“My son, since I have seen all those cities, and the way the Long Knife people are doing, I begin to realize that our lands and our game are all gone. There is nothing but the Long Knives (or white people) everywhere I went, and they keep coming like flies. So we will have to learn their ways, in order that we may be able to live with them. You will have to learn all you can, and I will see that your brothers and sisters follow in the path that you are making for them.”

 

This was the first time my father had ever spoken to me regarding acquiring a white man’s education. He continued: “Some day I want to hear you speak like these Long Knife people, and work like them.” 

 

Luther would spend the rest of his life learning to follow a road he could never have imagined when he was young – that even the wisest elders had not been able to foresee – just as that motorcyclist could not have foreseen his wreck in the mountains one July day, as I pedaled north, aiming for Glacier. Luther received his new name at Carlisle, a school later made famous by the exploits of its most athletic student, Jim Thorpe. His hair was cut short, as the hair of all the boys was, and students, male and female, were forbidden to speak their own tongues. He received a suit of clothes, a jacket, vest, pants, suspenders, a pair of boots that squeaked when he walked, and a set of red flannel underwear which itched. He learned the alphabet, how to write cursive, how to add, subtract, multiply and divide. As a “model student,” General Pratt later sent him to Philadelphia to work in the Wanamaker Department Store.

Luther Standing Bear: Following a new road.

 

And so, Luther, and others tried to adjust. He returned to the reservation in 1882 and did his best, as a teacher, to lead other native children down a new road. He married in 1887, to Nellie De Croy, whose mother was Indian, and whose father was white. They had a son of their own, and they were living in what is now South Dakota, when the last hopes of the Lakota were dashed. 

 

“We cannot honestly regret their extermination.” 

IN 1890, AS THE GHOST DANCE FUROR spread, “Kill the Indian,” struck the editor of the Saturday Pioneer, a newspaper in Aberdeen, S.D., as more than a metaphorical solution to what was called the “Indian problem.” Sparked by the visions of a Paiute prophet named Wovoka, natives cooped up on reservations across the West started dancing madly, believing they could bring back their old way of life. In that context, on December 20, L. Frank Baum sat down to pen a piece, ironically extolling the virtues of Sitting Bull. 

Five days earlier, the great chief had been arrested by U.S. soldiers and Indian police on the Pine Ridge reservation and killed as he tried to resist. 

Now Baum editorialized: 

“Sitting Bull, the most renown Sioux of modern history, is dead.” Admitting the abuse Native Americans had suffered, Baum continued, “What wonder that a fiery rage still burned within his breast and that he should seek every opportunity of obtaining vengeance upon his natural enemies.”

 

The proud spirit of the original owners of the vast prairies, inherited through centuries of fierce and bloody wars for their possession, lingered last in the bosom of Sitting Bull. With his fall the nobility of the Redskin is extinguished and what few are left are a pack of whining curs who lick the hand that smites them. The Whites, by law of conquest, by justice of civilization, are masters of the American continent and the best safety of the frontier settlers will be secured by the total annihilation of the few remaining Indians. Why not annihilation? Their glory has fled, their spirit is broken, their manhood effaced; better that they should die than live the miserable wretches they are.

 

We cannot honestly regret their extermination, but we can at least do justice to the manly characteristics possessed… by the early Redskins of America.

  

With the dancing mania spreading, Luther was called into the Rosebud reservation agent’s office one day. There, two men, Short Bull and Breaks-the-Pot-on-Him, told of the Ghost Dance. 

Short Bull explained: 

We heard there was a wonderful man in the Far West. He was a Messiah, so several tribes gathered together to go and see him. We went to the place where the sun sets, and there we saw this man. He told us we were to have a new earth; that the old earth would be covered up, and while it was being covered we were to keep dancing so that we could remain on top of the dirt.

 

This man told us that all the white people would be covered up, because they do not believe. Even the Indians who did not believe would also be covered. He showed us visions of the olden times when the buffalo were plenty; when the big camps were on the plains. All our people were dancing and having a big feast.

 

This man hit the ground and he made fire. He spoke to all of us at once, and all the different tribes understood him. He said that all the white people would be destroyed. He taught us a song to sing during this dance.

 

 

“The agent spoke to both these men politely,” Luther added, “and asked them not to stir up the Indians at Rosebud Agency.” 

They both promised and then left for home.

 

During my teaching days, I used to explain to students how enthusiasm for this dance exploded. “‘People believe what they want to believe,’ we usually say,” I would remark. “I believe it truer to say, ‘People believe what they must believe.’ The natives saw their old way of life dying – and they needed to believe that a vanishing life could be saved. The ghost dancers promised they could make the other races disappear. The buffalo would return, and the hunting would be easy again. Even their long-lost ancestors would return. And who would not want that?” 

Or, as William Least Heat Moon would write, decades later, “Ghost dances, desperate resurrection rituals, were the dying rattles of a whole people whose last defense was delusion – about all that remained to them in their futility.”  

Cartoon by Bill Nye, 1893.

 

As for Luther Standing Bear, he was witness, in the winter of 1890, as fresh disaster for his people played out. “The first thing we knew, the majority of the Rosebud Indians had joined the ghost dancers,” he said. “We could see the dust flying skyward from the dancing, and hear the beat of the tom-toms. They would keep up the dancing until they fell from exhaustion.” 

He tried to calm the people he knew best, but his uncle, Hard Heart, arrived from Pine Ridge reservation. “He said that a new world was coming to roll on top of the present one, and that they must either join the ghost dancers or perish with those who did not believe.” The people were restless – and that night came warning that the soldiers were coming. Some called for calm. 

Hard Heart disagreed. It was believed by many that Ghost Dancer shirts would protect them from soldier bullets. 

“Hey, hey! What are all you men doing here? Don’t you know that the soldiers have taken all our women and children away from Cut Meat Creek?” Hard Heart exclaimed. “Why do you all sit here doing nothing?” 

Soon after, Luther’s brother-in-law visited his home. “My Winchester rifle, with 50 rounds of cartridges in the belt, was standing in one corner of the room, and it was the first thing he spied. He wanted this gun. ‘Let me have it, and I will go over and see what all this means,’ he said to me.

Luther handed it over, adding ruefully, “That was the last I ever saw of that rifle.” 

Later that day, December 29, U.S. Army troops tried to disarm a body of 350 Lakota, 120 men, 230 women and children, encamped along Wounded Knee Creek. Ordered to surrender their arms, most reluctantly complied, but one warrior decided to resist. A shot was fired, and then 500 soldiers surrounding the camp opened up and the Lakota who still had weapons returned fire. By the time the slaughter ended, at least 153 natives were dead, probably twice that many. “We tried to run,” one survivor said, but the soldiers “shot us like we were buffalo.” 

Another survivor, a young woman, explained, “I was running away from the place and followed those who were running away. My grandfather and grandmother and brother were killed” and then she “was shot on the right hip clear through and on my right wrist where I did not go any further as I was not able to walk.” After the shooting ceased, a kind-hearted soldier picked her up, and covered her with a blanket, “and a little girl came to me” and crawled in beside her. 

Known today as the “Wounded Knee Massacre,” this was the last spasm of violence that all but annihilated the original inhabitants of North America. 

As for Luther, interviewed decades later, he provided his own description of events, his anger still raw. 

The following morning the news arrived of the terrible slaughter of Big Foot’s whole band. Men, women, and children – even babies were killed in their mother’s arms! This was done by the soldiers. According to the white man’s history this was known as the “battle” of Wounded Knee, but it was not a battle – it was a slaughter, a massacre. Those soldiers had been sent to protect these men, women, and children who had not joined the ghost dancers, but they had shot them down without even a chance to defend themselves.

 

When I heard of this, it made my blood boil. I was ready myself to go and fight then. There I was, doing my best to teach my people to follow the white men’s road – even trying to get them to believe in their religion – this was my reward for it all! 

 

Fearing that he had no other choice, he sent his wife and children away, to be with her white father. He and two friends agreed they would fight if necessary and bought new guns. 

“While we three were Carlisle graduates,” Luther explained, “we determined to stick by our race.” 

When I arrived at the place where the fight had occurred between the Indians and the soldiers, all the bodies had been removed. Here and there lay the body of a horse. The tipi poles were broken and lay scattered about in heaps. Cooking utensils were strewed around in confusion; old wagons were overturned, with the tongues broken off. Everything was confusion. It was early in the morning when I reached this place, and the silence was oppressive and terrible.

 

There were many little pools of water here and there, some with clear water and others red with the blood of my people. I was enraged enough at this sight to shoot any one, but nobody was to be seen. The place of death was forsaken and forbidding. I stood there in silence for several minutes, in reverence for the dead, and then turned and rode toward the agency. 

 

Indeed, the road ahead for all the tribes would be long and winding, and most often hard. In 1900, Baum would achieve fame as author of The Wizard of Oz. Luther would have a chance to travel to England, as part of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, and have a chance to meet the king. He would move to California in 1912, get involved in the early movie-making business, and even land a few small roles. He would live to see young Lakota men volunteer to fight for “their” country, during World War I. Not until 1924, however, would he, or any of those soldiers, or any of the other members of once-powerful tribes, be granted automatic U.S. citizenship. 

His personal journey would end with his death on February 20, 1939. Baum’s story of an Emerald City, and Dorothy and red slippers, would be adapted and turned into a movie, released on August 25. 

Six days later, civilization would start down a terrible road, with no man or woman able to predict where the red highway would end. 

On September 1, Hitler sent his troops crashing across the border of Poland, touching off a slaughter more unimaginable than even the worst horrors of Wounded Knee. 

In 1939, when my mother and father were 24, the Germans blasted a path to the east, while Sky, and all but one other cyclist I met in Montana, in the summer of 2024, headed east, too, but by quieter passage. 

I kept pedaling west, having hours in the saddle every day to ponder the travails of the human race.

A question posed in Harper's Weekly, 1870.

Dorothy's journey took her down the Yellow Brick Road.

Wounded Knee or World War II: Human beings are capable of great cruelties.

The idea of writing about all kinds of journeys crystalized in my mind on that fateful morning of July 22, as I pedaled up Highway 89. I was churning up the long mountain climbs – but feeling almost young – and then ripping downhill again. At one point, I stopped at a pull-off to take a picture, and at the last instant, with the glare of the morning sun in my face, saw barbed wire barring the entrance. I hit the brakes hard, but my front tire caught a barb perfectly, and stuck. 

Fate again.

It took me a moment to pull by tire free, and I expected my tire to go flat. After examining the damage, I could see no signs of any air loss. I hopped aboard again, climbed through a long hairpin turn, and kept on going. It was a spectacular day, in spectacular countryside, and I was feeling proud of myself, at my age, being able to do what I was doing. I even stopped to take a joke picture for my wife, about being in “bear country,” since bears while camping are one of her phobias. As I’ve already said, I was pedaling, head down, when I heard a motorcycle roar past. Then I heard a second, but the sound was too close, and I looked up, and saw an out-of-control rider fly past. 

I couldn’t shake the feeling for the rest of the day – for the rest of the trip – to this very day. I kept thinking, “That rider got up this morning, and he was just as excited about his journey as I was.” 

I knew a car could wipe me out at any point. Or a grizzly bear. Or that motorcycle rider could have clipped me, too, had I spent another split second pulling my tire loose from the barbed wire. Or I could be on a plane that crashed, heading home, at the end of my journey. I had already had a heart attack in 2021. None of us are guaranteed another year of life, or a month, or a day, or another breath. 

In fact, some years back, I came across an author’s observation: “Every breath we take has two possible endings.” 

I’ve had nine more months of successful breathing since that day in the mountains, and I’ve got plenty more to say about riding in Glacier Park. For now, I’ll only say this. I pedaled into the park later that day, camped for the night, talked to a 78-year-old woman who told me she was going to do her last hike in Glacier, with dementia bearing down, as she knew, and the next day, I rode up Logan Pass and down again to Sprague Campground. That ride was awesome, and I took dozens of pictures – almost all of which I lost, when my phone overheated for the sixth or seventh time on my trip. 

I spent July 24 pedaling to Kalispell, and on July 25, I stopped at the Wheaton Bicycle Shop to have my rear tire examined, and to buy spare tubes. I had suffered seven flats during my ride, all on the back tire, but could find the cause only on the first, a thousand miles back in Ohio. Finally, I decided a burr in the metal rim must be the problem, and I had filed it down. Now I wanted a little expertise – and I was planning to continue my trip to the Pacific that day. I had 3,200 miles behind me, and 600 to go. And I had been told by every rider coming east that the miles ahead were beautiful.

It’s a long story but simply told. My daughter Sarah, a pediatric nurse practitioner, asked me to stop. She was afraid any of the two dozen fires already burning in Oregon might explode in my path. She worried that the smoke would affect me more than I could predict. I mulled it over most of that day. Finally, I promised Sarah I would call her mom, and I would see what she had to say.

I called Anne soon after, told her what Sarah thought – said I was of a divided mind, and asked, “Okay, do you want me to come home?” 

Oh, please do,” she replied. 

Having already achieved two of my three main goals – to visit Sarah and her husband in Portland – and to pedal through Glacier National Park – I decided to abandon my route, and on July 26, flew home, without mishap, to Cincinnati, happy to see Anne, but sad to have quit. 

Now I joke, “Well, I think I’ll ride across the USA again – when I turn 80 – assuming I’m still around.” 

I’m serious, too.

(Assuming the outcome of my next breathe is good.)

CLICK ON ANY PICTURES TO EXPAND.

The Montana state line.

One day, I pedaled 73 miles and this was the only standing water I saw.
The gap in the reeds shows where I worked my way down to the stream
for a cooling but muddy dip.

I thought, in 2024, that this graffiti was appropriate.

"Stealth camping," morning cleanup, somewhere in Montana.

I think I lost this rider's name; I'll check.
He got pummeled by golf-ball-sized hail during a storm.

Sky told me she was getting a rejuvenating boost from chicken broth.
I bought some bouillon cubes and they helped.

Patrick Parks and I killed a hot afternoon at a store in Sand Springs
(population 9 or 10). He had been a public school teacher and administrator.

Emily Johnson and I met at a rest stop, where we could fill water bottles.
She was also pedaling solo, across the USA, heading east.

I found a wallet by the side of the road, near Lewiston.
I had to make all kinds of calls to locate the owner.
He got his wallet back, with his $47, and credit cards.

(He sent me a $50 gift certificate in return.)

Like Luther Standing Bear, my father taught me to be strictly honest.

There's a speck of a rider in the center of the picture.
His wife was carrying his gear in their SUV.

Abandoned home in Montana.
Many parts of the West have fewer people than in 1920.

Wide open country west of Lewiston.

Three pictures of Moccasin, Montana, almost a ghost town.
In 2020, only 23 people remained.

I met the Bossen family in Stanford, Montana.
(Mike and Sandy with the girls, Mia and Tory.)
Talking to them was a highlight of my ride.

The next morning, a restaurant in Stanford was having a radio promotion.
Breakfast for 56 cents. I had fun talking to two ranchers while eating.
Then Charlie Norton, another rider, came in. We enjoyed sharing stories,
and then I headed west, and he pointed east.

Travel light while cycling. Here, I use my hand as a plate,
and make lunch out of four hotdogs and ketchup.

Real estate for sale? Western Montana.

On one of several beastly hot days, I jumped into an irrigation canal.
Delightful.

Blackfeet tribal celebration, near Browning, Montana.

In the Montana mountains, approaching Glacier.

I met this German rider as he was coming out of Glacier National Park.
I can report, you don't meet depressed riders on bicycles.

Soaking my feet in the cold water of Glacier.

Soon after this, my phone, which had overheated several times
and shut down, died forever. I lost almost all the pictures
I took in the park, a grave disappointment.

One of only four pictures I recovered.

I did spend an hour swimming here, in Glacier. What a beautiful park.

ALL PICTURES BELOW ARE FROM A CAMPING TRIP IN 2014.

My wife and two youngest daughters hiking the Piegan Pass trail.

Swimming in an ice cold lake.
I was the only fool.

A mountain goat along the Grinnell Glacier Trail.

A view on the Grinnell Glacier Trail.

A second view from the trail.

My wife took a bad spill.

Hiking with my oldest daughter, Abby.

A shelter house at the end of another trail.

The High Line Trail was too scary for my wife.

Photo taken near the top of Logan Pass.

Overlook on the Going to the Sun Highway, heading up from the west entrance.
 In 2024, I was riding from the east entrance, instead.

Looking down from the overlook.

CLICK ON ANY PICTURES TO EXPAND.

Cross-Country Trip #1 - Summer 2007.

(Fifty-five days – 4,088 miles – money raised for JDRF - $13,500.)

My first ride across America took me from Avalon, New Jersey, southward, across Chesapeake Bay by ferry, through Virginia (including the beautiful Shenandoah Valley), West Virginia, and back to Cincinnati. (I had an eight-day rest to catch up with my wife and children.) 

Then it was west across Indiana, Illinois, Missouri and Kansas. I absolutely loved pedaling in Colorado and Wyoming, part of Montana, Idaho, into Washington, and crossing the Columbia River into Oregon, then down the Columbia River Valley, to Portland – and finally, ending my ride at Bay City, Oregon. My students and their families helped me raise most of that money.

Here’s a link, if you’d like to donate to Breakthrough T1D, and help find a cure.

When I ride for JDRF, now Breakthrough T1D, I ride for my daughter, Emily,
(seen here in high school) among others.

I believe two legs suffice. 
Pedaling across the USA depends on attitude.
I still think two legs suffice, now that I'm going on 76.

I was a history teacher. So I had to stop at battlefields in Virginia.

Stopping at Thomas Jefferson's home: Monticello.

 
Roadside memorial in Indiana.

Royal Gorge Bridge, near Canyon City, Colorado.
When I started my ride I could barely squeeze into that jersey.
I looked like a fat, pink sausage.

You can make your own camping places.
Here I made a spot near Leadville, Colorado.

Pedaling a bicycle in Wyoming means almost no traffic.
Near South Pass, looking back the way I came.

I got my first flat of the 2007 trip in Wyoming.

While I was fixing my flat, Sarah Brigham pedaled up.
She was pedaling south, and told me she made the tutu herself.

If you plan to pedal across the USA, go through Grand Teton National Park.
You won't be sorry!

Also plan on pedaling through Yellowstone.

I met Gene Meyers after riding over Lolo Pass, in Idaho.
We pedaled together for five days.
He had been dreaming of making a ride across the USA for twenty years.

My brother Tim brought champagne for the end of the trip. 

Painting for JDRF.

In 2008, I retired from teaching after 33 years with the Loveland City Schools. Two years later, I agreed to paint the Harry Whiting Brown building in Glendale, Ohio, where I live. It’s a complicated story – but I was able to donate $11,000 more (all the profit) from the job to JDRF. It was hot, hard work. 

As on my first ride across the United States, I lost twenty-five pounds while working on this building. 

(Spoiler alert: I didn’t keep it off.)

The building hadn't been painted in decades.
I scraped every inch with a wire brush.

Painting for JDRF.

Mission accomplished.

Trip #2

(58 days – 4,615 miles – money raised for JDRF - $11,000.) 

I decided to do a second ride across the United States in 2011, at age 62. Once again, I needed to lose 25 pounds, and once again, I did. 

(As always, I eventually gained it all back.) 

This time I started at Acadia National Park, a place I love. I cut across New Hampshire and Vermont, which are beautiful, found good roads across central New York, across the Pennsylvania panhandle, and worked my way south, in Ohio, to Cincinnati. Then it was due west – across Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, and South Dakota. The Badlands on a bicycle, and the Black Hills, were fabulous. I recommend the Mickelson Trail, which takes you north a bit, and then I headed for Yellowstone, crossing over the Big Horn Mountains, at Powder River Pass. 

That’s a climb, a gain of almost a full mile in elevation, steadily uphill for 33 miles. Then downhill you go, clutching your hand brakes like a man possessed. The route from Cody, Wyoming into Yellowstone is beautiful, and after a few days in the park, I aimed south, cycling through the Grand Tetons, heading for Salt Lake City. U.S. Highway 89 was a good way to go, and as a history teacher, I found Utah fascinating. 

I kept going south and then west and even crossed the Sevier Desert – which, heretofore, I had not realized existed. I followed U.S. Highway 50, “the Loneliest Highway in America,” across Nevada. At Reno, I turned south along 395, and at Lee Vining, I headed up Tioga Pass, into Yosemite National Park. A few days spent there – as always, a thrill. Then I headed for San Francisco and ended my trip with a front tire in the Pacific.

If only I could stay so thin! San Francisco, California, 2011.

CLICK ON ANY PICTURES TO EXPAND.

At the top of Kancamagus Pass, New Hampshire. 

Baker River, New Hampshire.
Bed carved out of a solid slab of granite.

My favorite store, somewhere in New York.

Seneca Falls, New York, where the journey toward equality
really began for women in this country. Frederick Douglass,
the black abolitionist and reformer looks over my shoulder.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton holds the parasol, at left.

Waking up at a campground on the shore of Lake Erie.

I was using my phone to find a motel on a brutally hot day in Indiana.
Due to confusion, I ended up spending a night on the floor
in a doggie day care facility, the Dog Patch Motel.
The owner only charged $20, and it was air-conditioned.

Cathedral in the Cornfields, Beaverville, Illinois.

A young spectator at a July 4 parade.
Wilmington, Illinois.

The hosts at a campground in Illinois fed me an excellent breakfast.

Mike and Kathy Frizoel. Kathy battled type-1 diabetes.
Mike had a large tiger tattoo on his back, to honor
her fighting spirit.

Crossing the Mississippi near Clinton, Iowa.

Caesar Lopez, an immigrant who came to this country with nothing,
 had built La Feria into a restaurant that served hundreds every day.
Clinton, Iowa.

In Iowa you could go any direction and see cornfields.

The Woitte family put me up for a night.
Lexi, their daughter, was a type-1 diabetic.

Pedaling through the Badlands, in South Dakota, was a thrill.

Mt. Rushmore, South Dakota.

I visited the Staebler family in Montana.
Sydney, right, also had type-1 diabetes.

Lower Falls of the Yellowstone River, 308 feet high.

Tourist overlook, right.

Buffalo in Yellowstone watch me pass.

Scene on the Yellowstone River. Pedaling in the park is great.

Scene off to the side of the road, Grand Teton National Park.

Lunch break, Grand Teton.

Colleen and Doug Zinn. Colleen was finishing a cross-country ride
begun decades earlier. (Somewhere in Utah.)

Morning sunrise at Bear Lake, Utah.
"Stealth camping" again.

When I ride I measure distance in MPM: Miles per milkshake.
Garden City, Utah, the Raspberry Capital.

Mormon Temple, Salt Lake City.

Scene on the Loneliest Highway in America. 

Yeah, the Loneliest Highway is lonely.

Sunburn: an occupational hazard of pedaling across the USA.

Middlegate Station, Nevada. If you turn south here
you can take a shortcut into California.

A lake just off the highway, as I pedaled into Yosemite National Park,
coming up Tioga Pass, out of Nevada.

Bear warning in Yosemite. They will bend your doors to get at food inside.

View from Glacier Point, Yosemite.

The view down: 3,000 feet.

A stream in Yosemite, a short hike off the road.

Here’s a link, if you’d like to donate to Breakthrough T1D, and help find a cure.