Boy I've been busy. Busy having fun, mostly. Since I got rained on leaving Bigfork, I have put in some miles. In between time I have been visiting phone outlets trying to get my communications sorted. I junked my $100 prepaid non refundable plan with some mob called T-Mobile, because it gave me nothing but grief and never worked from the time I signed up in Seattle. This in turn has restricted my ability to contact my bank at home to sort out a technical issue relating to my continued credit. DONT EVER EVER HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH T-MOBILE, EVER. THEY ARE HUCKING FOPELESS AND THEY SELL CRAP THAT JUST DOESN'T WORK. Thanks to AT&T, I am now sorted. And thanks to C2.0 calling my local bank branch for me to set up a line of communication, I can rely on my credit cards working. I needed all that like a hole in the head, but its all good from here.
After a day of riding through vast open spaces and rolling hills I spent a night at White Sulphur Springs, Montana, for no particular reason. I needed fuel and had a choice between the shiny new servo or an old beaten up garage with a dilapidated pump out the front. Just for the hell of it, I stopped at the latter. Up until now, to get fuel, I have had to go inside, ask for the pump to be unlocked, leave my credit card as collateral, fill up, then go back and pay. Why? Because I can't pay at the pump with my card because I don't have a zipcode, which is the first step to validate the transaction. Total pain in the butt, but there you are. Same problem as in 2012, and I knew what to expect. Anyway, I walk in, credit card at the ready, and this old guy in denim bib and brace overalls and an oil stained baseball cap, who has been eyeballing the stranger on the weird looking motorcycle through the window, says laconically "Just go put the gas in, son, then come in and pay". Which I did. We then had a chat for about 20 minutes. Inside the building were two old cars, one I recognised as a 1957 Chev, the other an even older Ford. Old but not dilapidated. Turns out the garage used to be a car dealership, and they belonged to the boss, who hadn't actually gotten around to doing anything with them despite promising to back in about 1975. Time stands still in White Sulphur Springs. As in Australia, country folk are different. They are truly the salt of the earth, the foundation upon which the rest of our society is built. They know what they have to do and they know how to do it. I respect that. And I just like talking to them.
Well, the Indians might have won the battle, but you wouldn't like what they've done with the place in the years since. As you approach the site from either direction, you can't help but see the squalor in which Sitting Bull's descendants live. Dilapidated houses, overgrown yards filled with junk, a sorry state.
To the victor go the spoils. Not in this case. Nevertheless, the adjacent trading post seems to be going ok, and Sitting Bull's descendants were helpful and friendly enough. And check out the real teepees.
Couldn't help noticing the sign on the door to the Visitor Centre.
You can't bring guns in here, this is a battlefield. Shades of the immortal Peter Sellers in Dr Strangelove: "Gentlemen, you can't fight in here, this is the War Room!"
After a day of riding through vast open spaces and rolling hills I spent a night at White Sulphur Springs, Montana, for no particular reason. I needed fuel and had a choice between the shiny new servo or an old beaten up garage with a dilapidated pump out the front. Just for the hell of it, I stopped at the latter. Up until now, to get fuel, I have had to go inside, ask for the pump to be unlocked, leave my credit card as collateral, fill up, then go back and pay. Why? Because I can't pay at the pump with my card because I don't have a zipcode, which is the first step to validate the transaction. Total pain in the butt, but there you are. Same problem as in 2012, and I knew what to expect. Anyway, I walk in, credit card at the ready, and this old guy in denim bib and brace overalls and an oil stained baseball cap, who has been eyeballing the stranger on the weird looking motorcycle through the window, says laconically "Just go put the gas in, son, then come in and pay". Which I did. We then had a chat for about 20 minutes. Inside the building were two old cars, one I recognised as a 1957 Chev, the other an even older Ford. Old but not dilapidated. Turns out the garage used to be a car dealership, and they belonged to the boss, who hadn't actually gotten around to doing anything with them despite promising to back in about 1975. Time stands still in White Sulphur Springs. As in Australia, country folk are different. They are truly the salt of the earth, the foundation upon which the rest of our society is built. They know what they have to do and they know how to do it. I respect that. And I just like talking to them.
Continuing on through the rolling hills, I approached the famous site of the Little Big Horn Battlefield. Where General George Armstrong Custer and the 7th Cavalry faced off with a large band of Indians, led by Chief Sitting Bull and others. The General was intent on teaching the natives a lesson. It didn't end well for George. What did surprise me was the number of headstones, which mark the final resting place of the soldiers. This was a big stoush, and the ebb and flow of the battle is well documented and on display.
To the victor go the spoils. Not in this case. Nevertheless, the adjacent trading post seems to be going ok, and Sitting Bull's descendants were helpful and friendly enough. And check out the real teepees.
Couldn't help noticing the sign on the door to the Visitor Centre.
You can't bring guns in here, this is a battlefield. Shades of the immortal Peter Sellers in Dr Strangelove: "Gentlemen, you can't fight in here, this is the War Room!"
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