As far as I could tell, the motel's only clientele last night were three bike tourists.  Any sane person with a car would have driven to the next town--an additional fifty miles in any direction--to avoid this place.

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I met the third cyclist (besides Frank and me) as I wheeled my bike out of my room.  He was a younger guy on a trip from Bellingham, WA to somewhere in Indiana and he was just about ready to begin his day of riding as well.  I thought about tagging along with him for a little while, but I felt some discomfort because he spent the night in the room next to mine and if I could hear him going to the restroom, he could hear me.  I let him go on ahead.

Heading eastward, I hailed a couple coming from the opposite direction, bound for Seattle.  Their accents sounded Scandinavian.  Later, I waved to another rider who was so loaded with bags and gear that I could barely see the bike itself.  I didn't talk to him, but judging by the size of the load he was carrying, he must be on an around-the-world trek and he's been collecting a souvenir from every town he's been through.

The weirdly eroded landscapes (badlands) of eastern Montana began to reveal themselves along today's desolate 50 miles.  I was impressed.

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Barring any disasters, this should be my last night in the great state of Montana.  It is a very beautiful and geographically diverse state and I will be leaving it with a bittersweet feeling.  Bitter in that I am leaving what I consider to be the frontier, the unknown, the far from home.  And sweet in that I will be one step closer to home, which I am starting to miss.