Looking ahead on this day, I wasn't sure how far I'd get. I thought maybe I could make a big push; there were two towns that had potential, McLaughlin and Mobridge. After 50 miles I stopped in a town that was literally two buildings in any use, a post office and a saloon called ''The Buzzard's Roost''. I stopped in the roost to get a drink and a snack. The place was empty except for a bartender/cook. And the emptiness was almost overwhelming. Twenty empty tables, twenty empty bar stools, twenty-foot high ceilings. I couldn't guess what kind of business this place would need this much space for. You'd need to empty the three surrounding towns to fill it.
The bartender asked me where I was headed, and I told him Mobridge was looking pretty far, so probably McLaughlin. ''You don't want to stay there. It's pretty rough. Gang activity.'' Gangs? By way of an explanation he said the town was 90 percent Native American. ''McIntosh is okay. That's where I live,'' he said. He went on to say they had a park there, near the school, where people sometimes camp. Okay, I thought, the decisions for the day seem to be out of my hands, and really none of the prospects were ideal. I thanked him and left.
The good news was that McIntosh was only 20 miles away.
About half way there I stopped to take a drink of water, and only then noticed an inn just across the road. I think at first I thought it was just a big farmhouse.
Continued...
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