Day 6 -- Garryowen, Montana to Belle Fourche, South Dakota -- 214 Miles

Today our aim was to stay off the Interstate (always our aim), backtrack to the Little Big Horn battlefield for a last look, then cruise the nearby Warrior Trail all the way to South Dakota. I figured that the first two goals were easily accomplished. But I wasn't sure about the 3rd goal because I just didn't know what to expect of the 200+ miles of Montana Route 212. On the map it's just an insignificant red line that passes through towns with dubious names like "Busby," "Muddy," "Lame Deer," and "Broadus." I felt sure that the towns would be so small that there was every possibility that we would have time to meet and chat with the entire population if we so desired.

We rolled out of camp (photo top left) around our usual hour of 9:00 a.m. and crunched our way along the camp's gravel drive out to the frontage road that runs alongside Interstate 90. Once there, I could see that there was no on-ramp to gain access to the Interstate so that we could retrace our steps to the Little Big Horn battlefield site.

Not to be deterred, we stayed on the frontage road until we found a spot that tunneled under the freeway, then we crossed to the frontage road on the north side of the Interstate and resumed our drive north until we reached Route 212, the Warrior Trail. Stopping first to top off the tank, we were soon in motion again. We had by then decided to skip our visit with General Custer and just get on our way.

At that point it hadn't really occurred to us to question why Route 212 was the "Warrior Trail," so we did some research. We saw descriptions of the highway -- how it started in Yellowstone and went all the way to Minnesota (as Route 12 in Minnesota) -- but we hadn't found any information on who was responsible for the name.

The Warrior Trail crosses the very large Crow reservation that surrounds the Custer Battlefield, and it also crosses the Northern Cheyenne reservation that lies between the Crow reservation and the Custer National Forest. Reading up on other Warrior Trails in other parts of the U.S., we found that the name is usually derived because the current paved route follows the ancient Native American trade and hunting routes in a given area. I suspect that the Warrior Trail here in Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, and Minnesota is just such a phenomena.

We still didn't know much about our intended route, but we were game to give it a try. For half the day we were headed just about dead east across Montana. Then, after lunch, the route began to drop toward the bottom of the map until it finished up darting across the northeast corner of Wyoming and into west central South Dakota. For almost the entire day we saw very little traffic, very little in the way of habitations, and a whole LOT of those huge, round bales of hay. We passed field after field of those ubiquitous bales without ever seeing anyone actually baling the hay or even loading it for delivery.

Maybe some of you have heard about Nevada's Highway 50, the so called "Loneliest Road in America." Well, I'm here to tell you that the real "loneliest road" is right here in southern Montana. I think if you broke down out here on the Warrior Trail it would be three days before you saw a mechanic, and only then if it didn't interfere with his hay baling.

Anyway, the Trail didn't turn out to be quite as interesting and exciting as I had hoped. But the scale and scope of the rolling green hills and of course the hay fields was truly awesome. Given sufficient imagination, you would have no trouble at all visualizing bands of Sioux, Cheyenne, Crow, or Arapaho guiding their Pintos and Appaloosas across the distant ridges as they watched your progress from afar.

I have to admit that we scarcely noticed Busby, Muddy, or Lame Deer as we passed through. But when we reached Broadus it was time for lunch. AND, what did my wandering eyes spy as we rolled into town, but an absolutely magnificent antiques and rusty junk store. I immediately did a u-turn near the town square and parked lengthwise across five parking places right next to city hall. "Perfect," I said, and made ready to go junk shopping.

Now Concetta is not into junk of any sort, so she kindly consented to work on lunch prep while I went in search of that most rare of rare items for which I've looked long and hard -- a mounting bracket for a vintage blacksmith's pole vise. Now these mounting brackets definitely don't grow on trees, and most folks don't even know what I mean when I tell them I need one. But today Jane at the antiques shop knew exactly what I was talking about. Well, at least she knew what a pole vise was. Unfortunately she'd never seen the special mounting bracket and definitely didn't have one to sell me. Sigh.

But not to waste an opportunity to look at lots and lots and of old farm tools, I spent a few minutes combing through her stash and eventually came up with an antique wooden mallet that has also been on my list of things to acquire for my shop. The mallet appeared to be in good shape and the handle was tight, so I made Jane an offer and she knocked a bit off the price and off I went with my prize. I didn't get my pole vise bracket, but there will be other antique shops and other days.

After we had our lunch and wheeled out of town it was more of the same scenery of rolling hills, farm fields, and copious amounts of rolled hay. Most of this hay appeared to be freshly gathered and rolled, but there were substantial stacks of hay as hold as Methuselah. Neither of us had any idea why the unsold hay just sits around in jolly great stacks, but I rather suspect that at some point they must till it back into the soil or compost it in some other way.

During this post lunch drive we only stopped once to stretch our legs and ponder a collection of commercial archaeological subjects. The one seen here appears to me to be a 1939 Ford Business Coupe, sadly gone to seed. The subject sat forlornly in the parking lot of the local bar and grill, which, I was quick to note, advertised a weekly Tuesday night wet t-shirt contest on the side of the building. I didn't bother pointing that out to Concetta, however, but the bar's parking lot sign was pretty cool (photo bottom right).

Now the only thing left to tell you about is our contemplated breakdown that occurred as we neared the outskirts of the town of Belle Fourche, South Dakota. There we were, rather grateful that the long, hot day was nearing its completion, and cocktail hour would soon be upon us. Suddenly what sounded like the left front wheel began to make the all too ominous noise that tires make when they have produced a bubble on the sidewall and are about to blow out and leave you stranded. We know the sound because it happened to us while on vacation in our first motor home as we motored blissfully along the Interstate in Minneapolis back in 2013. First there came a thump-thump-thump, then a loud bang, and suddenly the rig was swerving toward the shoulder where it shredded the tire and dropped the bare metal wheel on the asphalt amidst a cacophony of screeching and grinding. Finally, came clouds of dust as we slid off the pavement and onto the soft shoulder when the rig finished up burying the right front wheel in the sand clear up to the axle.

Needless to say, we were not anxious to repeat that memorable event in our lives. So I immediately found a pull-out ahead, and rolled gently to a stop. Once the brake was set and it looked like we were well away from the passing traffic, I got out and inspected all the tires. Mysteriously, nothing appeared amiss. I couldn't find any sign of a bubble on any of the tires. Of course the rear duellies were not completely visible since each set was so closely tied together.

Since we were by then only a mile and a half from town I decided to nurse the rig into town, find a parking lot to get as far as possible away from passing traffic, and inspect the tires again. And that's what we did. Safely pulled over into the parking lot of a large gas station, I got out a mat that I could lay on and look under the truck. Nothing. I didn't see anything wrong. So I got out my large rubber hammer and went around and gave each tire a good whack, noting carefully the sound the tire made which would tell me if they all had the same (roughly) amount of air. Again, nothing

So, resigned now to try and find a tire shop, we topped up the tank since we were already in a gas station, then headed down the road toward our chosen camp. And wouldn't you know it, once we hit the nice smooth pavement of downtown Belle Fourche, the sound the tire or tires seemed to be making completely went away, and all was smooth and silent. Obviously, it was just the quality of the pavement on the Warrior Trail that had made it seem like we had a bad tire. Amazing!

Minutes later, the camp that Concetta had chosen appeared ahead and we rolled in. The owner of Wyatt's Hideaway Camp met us at the gate, led us to a nicely shaded space under the trees, and in the blink of an eye the rig was set up, the awning was extended, and we were sipping our cocktail in the shade. You just never know how your day is going to turn out when you're an RVer and you're exploring the highways and byways of American. But then, we wouldn't have it any other way.

And when you venture out on your own Warrior Trail, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.