My Favorite Ride: The Haunted Ride through Harlowton, Montana - Highway 191
By Michael McDonald
One strange, cross-country trip has stayed with me over the years. I really don't care much for highly traveled roads and have always tried to avoid them, whenever possible. One year when I was working in Alberta, Canada, I made a scenic trip in Motorcycle Paradise, down through the middle of Montana.
While heading south out of Great Falls, I ran into a terrible evening thunderstorm. The side winds made riding the last few miles of the day really tough, and I could smell the approaching rain. A little town called Harlowton on Highway 191 was as far as I could go before nightfall, and with the rain already beginning, I got a room in a small roadside motel.
I remember there was no shelter available for my bike, so with only concrete steps to each of the 10 or so rooms and a gravel parking area, I pulled my CX650 Honda as close to the door as possible for security . Although this bike was not a Silver Wing, it was pretty well equipped. I had actually bought a couple of wrecked bikes at a salvage yard in Denver a few years earlier and built one fairly decent motorcycle out of the pair. While the resulting bike looked a bit rough around the edges with it's cracked Vetter fairing, scuffed saddle bags and questionable pedigree, it was always reliable and unflinching to any dirt road, trail or campsite I pointed it toward.
That night, just as I was spreading my gear out on the motel floor to dry and the steam from the shower was starting to take the chill out of the room, there was a light knock at the door. On the steps stood a young girl, maybe 17-18 years old. Her hair and worn military fatigue jacket were filthy and she smelled like she was living on the road. She immediately launched into several versions of a sob story saying that she was hungry and desperate for a dry place to stay for the night. My initial gut reaction was mixed and I was torn between feeling sorry for her and being very leery of this unannounced stranger.
By this time, the clattering electric room heater and the shower steam from the open bathroom door had raised the temperature enough to come out of my ski suit, while the running water reminded me of another urgent matter. I hadn't taken a pit stop for the last 150 miles.
Determined not to let this suspicious guest interrupt the liberation of two days of road grime, I gathered up my billfold, watch and bike keys, and told her that she would be safe staying here tonight, but please don't try to pull anything. If a boyfriend comes kicking in the door to rescue you from a fate worse than death, I plan to come out shooting.
When I had finished cleaning up I discovered that she had taken some food and had vanished. I often think about how I handled the situation and question whether she was really traveling alone.
While turning in the room key to the desk clerk the next morning, I mentioned the girl. All at once his hometown "y'all come back now, ya hear" congeniality changed to a strange stare for a long moment. He then told me that there was a run-a-way girl who had been killed hitchhiking a few years back and she shows up in the area from time to time. She is always wearing a dirty fatigue jacket.
Haha - ghosts? Bullsh*t!
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