Across the Northern Plains

We lost the mountains near Great Falls, entering the rolling hills of prairie land, passing through tiny towns like Big Sandy and Box Elder. Harvested wheat fields sported blond stubble and drying bundles of hay looked like giant cake jelly rolls in the fields.
This was land rich in western history whose glory days had passed. Markers recalled Indian battles, settler expeditions and ambitious river settlements. Now we passed abandoned barns and white frame houses, once rather grand. White metal crosses marked all-too-frequent sites of highway fatalities. We shuddered as we passed several groupings – four in a row, then a pyramid of seven. Tiny towns advertised businesses like Bear Paw Savings & Loan and Montana Lil’s Saloon, but the biggest urban enterprises were the grain elevators and hoppers, the skyscrapers of the prairie.
We paused for a soak in Sleeping Buffalo Hot Springs, a timeworn complex just off the highway. A fat cat held court on the counter of the adjoining gift shop, which sold minnows, snacks and T-shirts proclaiming the area the “Mosquito Capital of Montana.” The enclosed hot springs were like most we’ve seen, steamy and smelling of sulfur, with a general air of decrepitude. The indoor Olympic-sized pool was spooky and dark, but we enjoyed a soak in the extra-hot soaking pool, under the baleful gaze of a bison painted on the wall.
The horizon stretches forever on Montana’s northern plains, where once-prosperous towns parallel the old Great Northern Railway tracks and bear European names like Malta, Glasgow and Havre, none of them resembling their distant namesakes.
Living time capsules, these towns combined ‘50s era neon signs and ornate 19th century stonework. We checked out the old drug store soda fountain in the railroad town of Stanley, and although it was way too early, enjoyed a “whirl-a-whip” custom-blended ice cream for breakfast.
We hit Highway 2 the first evening, the next morning setting out under leaden skies on one of America’s least-traveled highways. Steady winds blew down from nearby Canada; a gentle reminder that winter temperatures in these parts can hit 80 degrees below.
The mineral-rich grasses on these treeless plains once fed a vast sea of buffalo; now a token wild herd is fenced on the Nez Perce reservation. Outlaws like Butch Cassidy knew these plains and Chief Joseph surrendered to the duplicitous U.S. army here, effectively marking the end of the Great Plains Indian wars (and the Indians’ way of life).
The biggest crop in western North Dakota seems to be oil, and we camped for the night on a lake, the rosy glow of oil rig burnoff flames lighting the horizon of the nighttime sky. Heading east the next morning, we shared the road with a steady stream of trucks and equipment bearing names like Halliburton. A few gentle hills and clumps of forest appeared mid-state, along with fields of corn and sunflowers, their seed-heavy heads bending toward the earth.
Suddenly blinding rain and flashes of lightening drove us inside to a late lunch at a roadside café, where we sat in a vinyl booth at a Formica-topped table next to a trio of old-timers playing a friendly game of dice while they enjoyed cookies with mugs of coffee. Most customers, men and women, wore baseball caps. Terry had the walleye special for $8.95 and I had fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans for $6.50. The food was delicious. A stone marker outside indicated the geographic center of the U.S. We’re a long way from California.
Tonight we’re in a gorgeous state campground on the Turtle River near the Minnesota border, the only visitors in a forest of towering hardwood trees.
Photos at: http://picasaweb.google.com/happytwo.mcwilliams/TripEast2MTND?authkey=Gv1sRgCILphp6xtcXQHw&feat=directlink