Woke up the next morning and bushwacked my way back to asphalt. It wasn't long before I found myself amongst wave after wave of straight pipes, chrome, and leather. Man, this is getting old. Stopping along the way at what appears to be an old mining setup, I snapped some pics and did the walk around. A few other bikes rolled up as well, one was a Beamer if I remember correctly. Nothing special really, so I moved on. I don't really know what to expect, but with a name like “Devil's Tower”, how can you go wrong? Stopping at the souvenir shop just before the main gate, I grabbed a sticker and a mediocre root beer, and snapped some pictures from afar. As far as I can tell, another entrance fee would only allow me to continue on another ˝ mile to the base of the tower. Asking around, it didn't seem like there would be much worth investigating. You couldn't even get to the top, so I was pretty happy with what pictures I had. I wasn't overly impressed, but the tower was still rather cool. I guess it's some sort of ancient volcano that eroded away, leaving behind the columns of hard material that once filled the main vent in long, vertical columns. Good stuff.
At this point, I decided I had had enough with the biker crowd and moved on seeking a bit more seclusion. Hopping onto highway 212, I soon found myself in a little town in the middle of nowhere known as Broadus, Montana. I did a few laps, looking for a place to eat, and settled on a bright pink Cafe on the corner of the main drag. Hoofers, I think. It was pretty decent food, and a recommendation to anyone that happens to find themselves in this part of the world. I gassed up afterwords and hung out at the station for a few, shooting the shit with riders as they come and go. One old timer in particular, riding a Buell Ulysses, seemed pretty interested in my KLR. It seems that he use to own one and traded it in for the Ulysses. I'd be surprised if he got enough to cover the sales tax. Another, on a Harley, amused himself by questioning my choice in gear for a hot summer day in Montana. He thought I was crazy for my black textile jacket and overpants. I assured him that I'd rather be with it then without it, and it was just more incentive to keep moving, to keep cool. And with that, I moved on.
I soon found myself in Billings with light fading fast. With my boxers strapped to the luggage for the better part of the day, a good air dry and a bake in the sun just wasn't getting the job done. I figured it was time to do some laundry. I scanned the GPS, but quickly found it useless. Lapping the streets wasn't working out all that well, either. I did eventually find one, only to discover that they were closing within the hour. At least, that's what I gathered as the older woman behind the window kept shaking her head and not letting me in.... alright then. So I doubled back to one of the many large hotels to camp out for a couple hours. With an open washing machine, outlets available, and a WIFI pass-code coaxed out of the manager I was set to go. I vegged out for a few hours, stuffing my face on a feast of vending-machine goodness before heading out late into the night. Jumping on a dirt road heading out of town, it wasn't long before I had a tent pitched in the front yard of a burned out ranch. Ironically, the insistent beeping of a dying fire alarm within the home kept me up for a good portion of the night.