This must be the place: ‘Lost man singing for his soul, I saw it on Rio Bravo’

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This must be the place: ‘Lost man singing for his soul, I saw it on Rio Bravo’

Somewhere outside of Miles City, Montana. Garret K. Woodward photo

Hello from Room 205 of the Dude Rancher Lodge on North 29th Street in the heart of Billings, Montana. It’s 10:29 a.m. Already 82 degrees with a hot sun. Expected to top out ‘round 100 degrees when all is said and done on this Wednesday.

It’s almost been exactly a year since my girlfriend, Sarah, and I ventured through here and took a chance on the Dude Rancher amid late night travels during our trek from Denver, Colorado, to Whitefish, Montana. And we enjoyed it so much, we’re here again as an anchor point between Minneapolis, Minnesota and Whitefish.

Opened in 1950, the Dude Rancher is chock-full of genuine old western charm. The carpet design throughout the building features numerous branding logos from local ranches (either long gone or still intact) used to mark cattle. Wooden beams across the ceilings of the cozy rooms. Brick walls and big comfy beds. Strong coffee.

The plan today is to make the 3.5-hour jaunt from Billings to Great Falls, Montana, to position ourselves with the last 3.5-hour part of the journey to Whitefish, which will be Thursday from Great Falls through Glacier National Park. High, jagged peaks and low, robust valleys. Dry summer heat and cold mountain streams. Heaven on earth, truth-be-told.

For now, thoughts and visions of the first couple of days of this trip of curious wandering and intrinsic pondering. Waking up Monday morning in Minneapolis, it was decided to take the Interstate 94 to Interstate 90 route via rural Minnesota and North Dakota, eventually venturing into Montana and unknown points beyond.

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By Monday afternoon, we found ourselves standing in front of an enormous art installation of an otter. “Otto the Otter” was the creature’s name, signifying the popular Otter Trail Scenic Byway. Initially, I was in search of a barber shop, seeing as I didn’t manage to get my haircut in preparation for the west before we left Western North Carolina. No dice on an open barber shop in these parts.

But, we ended up at the nearby Prairie Wetlands Learning Center. Tossing on my running clothes and shoes, I trotted along the dirt and gravel paths winding through the wide swath of grasslands protected for nature and nature lovers alike.

Meandering through the scenery, thoughts of how all of the Great Plains once looked like this before the Industrial Revolution reared its head in the late 19th century. Before railroads and the destruction of man, which one is immediately reminded of as I-94 rushes by the wetlands within earshot.

No matter, the peaceful ways and means of the property conjured a sense of gratitude running through my body and mind. Onward to Fargo, North Dakota, in search of dinner. Landed at the Wurst Bier Hall in the depths of the city. Smoked German meats from just down the road and a pristine German ale to wash it all down. The sun faded quickly into night as we drove four hours to Dickinson.

Awoke Tuesday morning in the bright sunshine of Dickinson. Found a barber shop around the corner. Stepping into Queen City Barber Shop and being greeted by the owner, Jeremy. He’s been the owner for 14 years and apprenticed for five years back then before taking it over from the previous owner who operated the space for 45 years. All total, the business has been in existence for 94 years.

Talk of corn now knee-high and “blooming a little early for this time of the year with all the rain we’ve had.” An older gentleman sauntered to get his ears lowered and reminded all within earshot that “yesterday was the 15th anniversary of the tornado.”

An EF3 tornado. Lots of destruction. Thankfully, nobody was killed or seriously injured. It’s known as the “7-8-9” tornado for the date by which it occurred. “Yeah, it tore through the south side of town,” Jeremy informed me before trimming my beard.

By early afternoon, the rental car pulled into the Painted Canyon Visitor Center, part of the Theodore Roosevelt National Park near Medora, North Dakota. It was stunning as to the immediate transition from endless grasslands into the high-desert emptiness of “The Badlands.” Massive mounds of ancient dirt and rock swallowed up by the heat of another dry summer.

Tossing on the ole running attire, I jogged down a nearby desolate dirt road in the afternoon heat. Big-rig trucks and tractor-trailers passed by occasionally, each coming from or heading to oil derricks dotting the horizon like mechanical dinosaurs. Dust clouds kicked up by the trucks. But, no matter, I was in my element of finding an ideal rhythm in my pace, my life, all as it unfolds in real time.

Swinging into nearby Medora, it was a late lunch at the Little Missouri Saloon. Packed out with tourists from every corner of the country. Only seats left at the bar counter. Cold drinks on a hot day. A hearty meal. Right as we left, I gave my seat to an older gentleman looking for the same sustenance.

His name was Butch Goodall. Looked to be about my father’s age, late 70s/early 80s or so. Adorned in a pristine cowboy hat, tucked-in button up shirt, pressed jeans and polished boots.

Butch’s handshake was like shaking hello with a large baseball glove, sturdy and firm. He’s lived in Western North Dakota his whole life and owns “a ranch up north.” He spoke of his grandfather, who “ran 3,000 head of cattle here from Wyoming in 1883. Our family has been here ever since.”

In the fleeting distance along 1-94 before crossing over the Montana state line, I noticed a small lake not far off the highway. Then, there was a sign stating “Camel Hump Lake.” We decided to pull off the road and check out this body of water. Why not, eh?

Dusty roads and rolling hills. Buttes high and mighty in the background of this vast, seemingly never-ending and enchanting landscape. Parking at Camel Hump Lake, we observed a plethora of swallows in their nests in a cliff across the water. A lone otter was swiftly moving along the shoreline, a flock of Canada geese in the foreground. The sun now beginning its descent, it was time to make our way back to I-94 and try to make Billings before nightfall.

Leaving Camel Hump Lake, we noticed a team of horses in a field further down the road. We stopped and got out of the vehicle and simply watched them from the other side of the old fence. Sarah smiled in appreciation of the moment at-hand. I concurred with my own grin of delight in the endless wonders of the universe.

Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.

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