7 July. Woke about 0600, showered, and snuck out of the room to get some Gatorade and water for today’s travels for me and my new riding buddies. I came back for the powder eggs of the continental breakfast that were about as delicious as mud soaked sawdust left in a high school gym locker’s laundry hamper. We packed and decided to make the 400 miles to Buffalo with a stop in Garry Owen, MT to tour the Little Big Horn battle museum. So, the cruise control was back on 90 and we chugged down the interstate with iTunes blaring in my ears. Past two bush fires, probably from a thrown cigarette, we arrived at the site of Custer’s Last Stand and the Battle of Little Big Horn. We toured the museum, gased up, and then shoved off. Thinking that the little Wyoming village of 4,000 might be overwhelmed with 12-15 thousand visitors, I decided to get Ike fed in Sheridan, WY. We had a great Mexican lunch and proceeded the last few miles in relative comfort of slower speeds. I had made reservations 8 months prior so we ended up in the big cabin at Deer Park. Lee and Suzie stopped by our camp, so we all took the shuttle van into town. We met up with everyone at another Mexican place, so I opted out for just a beer. We heard about the Cowboys vs Indians softball game with cast members was about to start, so John, April, and I went there to do some star-gawking. The cast appeared extremely friendly and funny sort of fellows. Jeff showed up so we went to John/April log cabin motel in town for an after dinner cigar. Afterward, John drove us back to the campground where Jeff and I went into operations normal routine: build a fire and light up a stogie and pour ourselves a scotch. The sun went down and the clouded sky made it a very dark night. We couldn’t see past the glow of the flames emanating from the cut-open-hot-water-heater-fire-pit. Suddenly, out of the darkness ahunched-over figured push one foot forward, and then the other foot forward, willing, struggling, to make headway. It was a man whom had survived the Bataan Death March, just barely. “Hello, Ike,” I said with scotch soaked enthusiasm.
“*&#$ing Bastards wouldn’t stop to pick me up. No-*$#@&$-body stopped. I had to walk the 14 miles from town to here.”
We coaxed him to a chair and handed him some water. He continued through the night to tell us his horrific tale. A tale so disturbing that it dares not be repeated. 
trafalgar adventures 