TOWNER, N.D. -- I don't live in mass transit country. This winter, I'm not even sure if I live in transit country, of any kind. We're fast becoming a no-transit zone as the snow falls, blows and drifts across our roads.
Last week, I was at a rancher meeting in Boise, Idaho. We somehow got there without having to drive through a blizzard. We had three people in our car driving straight through for 17 hours. We like to carpool when the weather gets hazardous. Harder to freeze with more people in a small space.
Making connections
My fellow carpoolers were going on to California, though, and I had to get back to North Dakota. I was hoping to take the train. Passenger rail service is mighty scarce in America, but our ranch is lucky enough to be just 12 miles off the line. On a still night, we can hear the trains go by. That'll give you a little insight into the general lack of noise pollution around our place.
The train option was not to be, however. Flooding and mudslides in the wintry-then-warm West had knocked out rail service for two or three days.
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I cobbled together another mode of travel. I needed a car for part of the trip. I couldn't afford to buy one, and I didn't feel right about stealing one, so I decided to rent one.
It's one of the amazing benefits of capitalism that you can jump in a $20,000 or $30,000 vehicle and drive away leaving nothing but your name, address and, of course, an imprint of your credit card.
I could drive the rental car to Bozeman, Mont., drop it off there and make the next transportation transfer in my epic journey, going Greyhound.
Never say never?
I haven't ridden a cross-country bus since I was 20 years old when I went from Abilene, Texas, to Fargo, N.D. At the conclusion of that trip, I'd had my fill of bus travel. I think I even promised myself, "never again." As they say, never say never.
I found myself at the Bozeman depot in the middle of the night waiting for a 3:10 a.m. eastbound bus. Of course, the depot was locked, so I stood outside and waited. And I waited and I waited. The 4:05 a.m. westbound came and went. I'm relatively weather tough, but this was Montana in January and I was starting to get cold.
I finally found out the bus would be there at 4:30 or so. A kind taxi driver let me sit in his car to warm up while he waited for the same bus and a possible fare.
When I finally crawled on the bus, I swear I saw some of the same people I rode the bus with 18 years ago. Let's just say bus travelers are a funny group. Funny, hmmm, not funny, ha ha. And I was one of them, so I can't pass much judgment on the rest of them.
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Many hours later we rolled into Bismarck, N.D., where my pickup grudgingly started and backed out of its snowy tomb. It seemed only fitting that I end my trip with a little more travel excitement, so I gave my new friend and busmate, Jose, a 100-mile ride north to Minot, N.D.
He didn't speak much English; I speak just a bit of Espanol. We taught each other a few key phrases as we finished my journey.
One author, years ago, said you can't go home again. I know we can go home again. But in some places and some winters, it just takes a little extra effort.
