Sitting around fretting at a gas station in Butte wouldn't solve an awful lot of my problem so I decided to continue on in the hope a solution would crop up along the way. For the moment my immediate thoughts were concentrating on the eventual summit assault of the Continental Divide.

You don't have to leave Butte to see the mountain - in places you can even see the road and the traffic going in both directions. There is something else you can see no matter where you stand. She's Our Lady of the Rockies, a white marble statue placed high upon a mountaintop. She has a commanding view of everything coming and stands stoically with outstretched arms as if to ask, "Are you SURE you wanna cross this mountain?" As I grew closer that very thought crossed my mind.

Up to this point the bus had been traveling along rather smartly with only a few places causing me to shift to the next lower gear. This was about to change because by the time the bus hit the first switchback it was in first gear and the engine was screaming for relief. "My God," I thought, "she's gonna blow." Indeed, sweat was draining from my pores as I watched the mirrors, constantly aware that an officer of the law could pull me over any second for going so slowly over the pass. However, in the...oh, almost half-mile-long line of traffic I had created behind me, I could see no vehicle with a light bar. I did see plenty of vehicles who had arms hanging out of the windows giving me various forms of hand signals though. The other thing that worried me was the blue smoke being belched from the exhaust - a clear sign the engine was being put through its paces. Luckily, there were only three more miles to the top.

Finally the pinnacle was reached and I pulled into the rest area to allow the procession behind me to pass. Driving by, their arms would once again hang outside the window and wave. And as I stood, amused at their frantic waves, I would casually return them. Some of the even friendlier ones blew their horn and waved. I suppose from their perspectives my pulling over could possibly be viewed as a humanitarian gesture. Hardly the case. The reason I pulled over was to formulate a plan for the downhill section of this ride should anything capable of doing potential bodily harm presented itself. Indeed, the potential was so vivid I could already see the headlines...

- CRAZED BUSDRIVER CATAPULTS OFF THE DIVIDE -
LANDS A TANGLED HEAP IN THE GORGE BELOW
- FREE TOOLS! -

If there was ever a place for some goodie two-shoe environmentalist to take on a campaign against billboards because of his solitary desire to return an unobstructed view of the scenery, it's Billings. That 22-mile stretch of road from a little west of Laural almost to the junction of I-90 & I-94 could easily be called 'Billboard Alley.' But it must be said that their effectiveness for advertising to the highway traveler is second to none. I swear that if you wanted a pound of loose wrapped up tight you'd eventually see a sign advertising it for sale. So, it wasn't long before a sign appeared saying a place called 'Flying J' had propane - it was even more inviting because it sported my brand new motto. "Alright!" said I, and for the remaining few miles to the truck stop I busied myself practicing giving various thumbs-ups.

If ever you find yourself traveling you owe it to yourself to stop at every Flying J Travel Plaza you see. Not only are they friendly, they have everything! Restaurants, game rooms, showers, a convenience store, clean bathrooms, TV lounges, large parking lots and, of all things, a stinking barber shop! I mean, come on...what real man is going to say, "Honey, you wanna fill 'er up and check the oil? I'm gonna run in and get my hair cut. Oh, clean the windshield, too." Of course, they have all the different forms of road fuel. And phones? Jiminy Crickets! It seemed to me there were more phones in a single Flying J than you'll find in an average size airport. But, beyond all of these, their most favorable attribute is they're generally plastered right up against the Interstate.

It was barking on 10:30 PM when the bus pulled into the station and fueled up then went around to the parking area for a rest. It was time for a beer and a little navigating. First off, logistics; I'd been on the road for 10 1/2 hours and driven 400 miles. I did the math...barely 40 MPH?? Contrary to a driving speed of 65 the average was only 40! I knew what it was; it was them damned hills! Now, because of the driving range having been cut in half, the situation of needing propane versus availability turned almost grim. According to a pamphlet I got while inside, the next plaza was on the MT/ND line in Beach, ND - my road atlas said it was 257 miles away - too far to chance it, I'd have to find some before that.

I woke up at 3:30 AM to hit the road again and merged onto the Interstate feeling good about the new day. Last night's navigation session revealed that I had a good chance of reaching the ND/MN line before nightfall. Adding up the 257 miles left in Montana and the 353 across North Dakota, gave me 610 miles. Even at 40 MPH, my before nightfall goal was easily achievable. In the meantime, I settled back for one of the most peaceful and serene drives you can ask for.

Anyone who's driven through eastern Montana knows how strikingly beautiful it is while at the same time being sparse as hell - even during daytime. However, during these wee hours if you experience any mechanical anomalies your chance of seeing another human life form pulling over to assist you are about as good as you being selected by NASA to go for a Space Shuttle ride. In fact, the smart ones will time their transition through this section in the daylight - the dummies would rather pass through here in total darkness. At about 5:00 AM it happened.

I'm certain you've driven past those piles of black rubber lying all over the road. But, have you ever wondered where they come from? Well, I'll tell ya...they're from the tires of large trucks and they're called re-caps. Have you ever wondered what it's like to be inside a vehicle preparing to engage itself in a complete tire disintegration episode? Well, I'll tell ya...someone ought to record that special noise and use it instead of the piddly bird-chirping sound you hear when your alarm clock goes off! Because if they did, I'll bet the entire contents of my shop that absolutely NO ONE will ever get away with the excuse, "I didn't hear my alarm" for being late to work. For at that early, peacefully serene hour, I came the closest to soiling my jeans as I've ever been in my entire life. It was the most ungodly, nerve-racking noise I've ever heard. It scared me so damn bad I was momentarily stunned because I couldn't figure out what was attacking me. Then I thought, "Aliens!" It's gotta be aliens because who else could shake 30-thousand pounds of iron and steel all at once? After regaining my wits I realized what had happened and then the seriousness of it suddenly hit me - there's only one tire on one side and it's suffering more than it's share of the weight. There was no sense getting out to look at it, the only thing I could do was limp it into the nearest town. I knew Miles City was reasonably close but couldn't remember what the last sign said - a few miles further on I was reminded; Miles City 15

For the next 15 miles I was a bundle of nerves and 45-minutes later limped into town with no further incidents. Providence must have been with me because the first business at the very edge of town was a tire station. The sign on the front door said it wouldn't open until 7:00 so I had an hour and fifteen minutes to goof off. Eventually, a man arrived and after greeting him, I explained the situation as we walked to the bus for him to take a look. We didn't get far before he lurched.

"My God," he said as he pointed, "how much weight you got in there?"

Little did I know it then, but that question was to become real familiar. "Oh, I'm not quite sure," I lied, then pretending to be a blonde, "Why?"

Watching him work, I told him about my scare and the alarm clock idea.

"Well, that's pretty good, Joe, but I think a doctor could put it to better use as an effective treatment for irregularity, don't you think?"

"Yeah," I reflected, "who needs to drink Metamucil anyway?" We both got a good laugh out of that one.

90-minutes and $250.00 later the bus was highway ready again and while in town I took the opportunity to fill up the tank. The journey across North Dakota was pleasant and uneventful and with propane stops at the FJTP in Beach, a regular gas station in Bismarck and then the FJTP in Fargo, I was able to get across the state without any worries. This wouldn't last long.

The precise moment I crossed over the bridge into Minnesota was when my propane worries began. Here I had been traveling so effortlessly across the open expanses of the west and finding propane whenever I needed it, that it never occurred to me to consider how blessed I was. At that exact moment the up-until-recently simple act of finding propane became an ordeal.

Continue to CHAPTER SIX