We left behind Fargo, North Dakota today, and with it the last major city we expect to encounter for several thousand miles. We’re heading for Whitefish, Montana now, which lies nestled in the Rockies, roughly one thousand miles west of us. We’ll break 2,000 miles tomorrow.

We stopped for a swim in the Sheyenne river earlier today. As we we’re  jumping off the bridge, slathering ourselves in mud, etc., a man named Chuck struck up a conversation with us.

He has a house right on the river, and he offered to cook us all burgers. We, being ever-hungry young men accepted, and we rode up to his house.

As we were barbequing, eating, and talking, a large storm started rearing in the western skies. It was more than fifty miles to the next town, and the sun was nearly setting, so chuck kindly offered his three upstairs rooms to us for the night. We happily accepted, and we’ve now turned in, each to his own room after hours of conversation about WWII, Chucks days in the army, and a great many other things.

As we head further and further west, into the vast expanses of Prairie, farmland, and the Bakken oil country, it’s nice to find such hospitality.








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