LEAVING FARGO, ND

Yesterday's rolling hills of western Minnesota have begun to flatten in eastern North Dakota. It's 61 degrees so fall has already come to these parts.  The fields are dotted with rolled hay, other fields have been plowed in preparation for winter. 

When the GPS says "stay on the road for over 400 miles" I know it's a long day, but I'm not thinking about it being long.  I'm thinking about appreciating what I see: the vastness of the sky, the vastness of the cornfields, the people who live out here and farm these fields.  We all benefit from their work so why wouldn't I appreciate where they are and what their life is here because we all need what they do.  So I'm thinking about the beauty of the prairie flatness, the trees scattered here and there, and the humongous sky that is absolutely cloudless and pale blue. 


Ponds, some small, some large almost like lakes, are scattered among the fields.  Near Medina I saw a cobalt blue pond surrounded by golden yellow fields -- absolutely spectacular.

If I had my box of crayons today I would be using cobalt for the ponds and small lakes, goldenrod for the fields, lime green for fields of new growth, desert sand for the hay bales, bronze or copper for the drying corn stalks. Some fields look like corduroy with wide strips of chocolate and camel, created by the harvesters' paths. And there are acres upon acres of sunflowers.

North Dakota State Capitol

I spent not nearly enough time in Bismarck, seeing the capitol and the heritage center before continuing the journey west. Before long the terrain began to include hills and buttes and outcroppings of higher places.  The wind began to pick up and the sky filled with small puffy clouds and the wind is picking up.

At Medora, in the Theodore Roosevelt Park, the scenery changed again, becoming more dramatic:  the painted valley, the colorful badlands, rough and rugged and steep and mountainous. Minerals and metals in the earth create the colors and patterns.

Near the Montana border, I passed an exit sign that said, "Home on the Range."  Now you know it's a real place -- not something made up for a song many years ago.

Once I crossed into Montana I am running with the trains in a very flat valley, with low hills on each side and the Yellowstone River.  While there's only a sign telling me I have entered a new state, it's also evidenced by the change of terrain.

Wild horses in the badlands