Do you know the type? The TV program where a couple of 'anthropologists' visit the home of a well-known Dane and try to guess who lives there.

That's how we feel today. We walk around an empty house and look at all the objects that say something about the owner. Here is a stuffed mountain goat, a large wooden four-poster bed, a coffee table with old pistols under a glass plate and the entire one wall in the living room is one large window facing the mountains of Montana. But we don't have to guess who lives here, we already know that. We are at Dawn Henriksen Barnes' home. She has Danish roots, and has been to Denmark several times to find her family. She is a typical example of a descendant of the immigrants who came to North Dakota, from Denmark, in the late 19th century. Now she has moved to Helena, Montana because she loves the mountains. We know she is an active woman. She skis, and has been the leader of the volunteer ski patrollers at Big Sky resort, the largest ski area in the USA. We also know she has run a marathon on each of the 7 continents. She is 65 years old and plans to go to France this autumn, to cycle part of the pilgrimage route, which goes from Canterbury in England to Rome in Italy. She is obviously a special woman.

But she's not at home.

We know all that because we have spoken to her on the phone several times.

When we wrote to Dawn, through the Warmshowers network for long-distance cyclists, a few days ago, and asked if she had the time and desire to visit us for a single night, she called immediately and said "Yes", but that she unfortunately was not at home. Still, she gave us the address of the house, the code to the front door, and a message that there was ice in the freezer. In this way, Dawn is not just an example of a descendant of an immigrant from Denmark, but also an example of the extreme hospitality we have encountered in the United States.

The last blog entry from Mexico probably ended with a slightly anxious attitude as to whether people are now also genuinely nice and welcoming in the United States, which we had become accustomed to through our journey up to now. But we have to admit that the USA has taken the prize for the greatest hospitality towards us.

We are in Montana. We have cycled the length of pretty much the entire US now. If we cycled the straight way, it was 500km to the border with Canada. But we never cycle the straight road. The odometer reads 22,500km, there are still about 7,000km until we reach our destination, in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska.

We have been in the US for almost two and a half months. Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Wyoming and Montana. We have seen the landscape change from the flat prairie to the wildest red sandstone cliffs in strange formations, to huge spruce forests and to granite mountains with snow on top. And we have met many nice, funny, quirky and warm people.

As soon as we drove into Texas, it went wild. Manuel stood by the side of the country road selling pecans that he grew in his backyard. It wasn't so much because of the pecans that we stopped. But when you see a cowboy hat crowning a man with a white bicycle handlebar moustache, cut-off T-shirt, large belt buckle, a revolver in his belt, jeans and cowboy boots, you hit the brakes and fill your mouth with a thousand questions. Manuel has lived here in Texas for the past 30 years. I guess you could say he fled here to. He was a bad boy in the past, he drank, took drugs, had affairs and behaved badly. But as happens to many, he experienced that Jesus came into his life and got him on the right track again. He moved to Texas with his wife. Calm down. Established a small church. And began to cultivate a little craft, which he sells along with the pecans.

Amidst all our questions and interest in getting to know Manuel, a car pulled up to the side and out stepped an elderly gentleman, dressed in World War II uniform, from head to toe. The whole nature of the conversation changes and everyone is addressed as Sir (but except Marie). The soldier asks for directions to the cemetery. Another car pulls in and another WWII soldier gets out and everything becomes incredibly surreal. Firearms are displayed, and they say that one of their fellow soldiers is to be buried today. We are allowed to take a picture of the two handsome men in uniform before they drive off in a motorcade. Manuel's wife has now come out and before we continue on our journey, they give us a prayer along the way. We stand in a circle, close our eyes, while Manuel recites a mass prayer, where the wife emphasizes and repeats the wishes for a safe journey for us. It was a very touching moment and it warmed our hearts that wild strangers would go to such lengths to invoke protection over our journey.

It was the first day in Texas.

We are back in Western culture. It is clear. We can get everything we need. And even more that we don't need. Here there is abundance to a degree that is completely incomprehensible and at times distasteful, especially when you come straight from a year in significantly poorer countries.

We meet thousands of motorhomes on the road. Large box vans, with pull-outs on the sides. If you imagine an ordinary Danish caravan and multiply it by 3-4 pieces. Then you have a typical American caravan. Or a motorhome. When we saw the first ones, we talked about the fact that in Mexico it would typically be a bus that could seat 50 people. Here it is a summer holiday convenience for 2 people. The largest caravans we have seen have 6 wheels. And is typically pulled by a 4-wheel tractor with a double rear axle. That is 6 more wheels. So it's more or less 3-4 tons on twelve wheels that have to be pulled across the country for two people to have a little holiday. In addition, virtually everyone has either an extra car, or a trailer with an all-terrain vehicle, in tow after the whole circus.

The contrast to our journey is noticeable. It is approx. as big as the environmental hogwash that belongs to it.

Generally speaking, many things are just bigger in the US. Actually, it makes good sense that washing powder, milk and cakes are in larger packages. After all, this way you save a bit of packaging and larger cakes have their obvious advantages.

In Moab we lived, among other things at Teri Ann's. Another Warmshowers host. But a special one of a kind. We thought she had a funny profile and we approached her. Only later did we hear her referred to as 'crazy desert woman', which might have been very fitting. Teri Ann was very colorful and creative and had built herself a house that was wildly decorated with lots of mosaics and art. She also had some wild friends. Every Tuesday they met to bowl and we were invited along. Before the bowling, however, we were right around one of the girls in the cast, who at home in the trailer park, invited for tequila shots.

While we sat there with tequila with cinnamon and orange, they told us about Erik, who owns the bowling center. Erik is Danish, and everyone was looking forward to us meeting him.

We went to the bowling center full of anticipation and as we should, we ordered a beer at the bar. We struck up a conversation with the young bartender, who asked where we were from. "Denmark", we said, to which he replied "Are you going to have a beating?". At first we gaped, and then we laughed. It turned out to be Erik's son. The only thing the son had learned in Danish was to say "skal du ha tesk?". Father Erik must have believed that it was the most necessary thing to be able to cope with cousins when they traveled to family gatherings in Denmark.

And then Erik finally came through the door. An older gentleman with a cowboy hat and moustache, a cheeky twinkle in his eye and a wry smile on his face. We asked him, of course, as the first thing, if he should have a beating.

Erik moved with his parents to the USA when he was 8 years old. In reality, his name is not Erik, but as he said in a Middle Jutland-sounding accent: “My name is actually Keld! But the Americans can't say Keld, so now I just say my name is Erik".

A theme on our trip has gradually become meeting older men on bicycles. Thus, at Fort Stanton, in Texas, we met Bill. We needed some wifi and a cup of coffee, and swung the bikes in past McDonald's. A touring bike was parked outside, and already through the window, we could spot the owner.

Bill is an 81-year-old man who got on his bike in San Diego to cycle across the United States to Florida. You can do whatever you want. However, he himself thought that he had chosen the easy solution, because he did not live in a tent, but allowed himself to sleep in motels. We now think it's ok to take these kinds of liberties when you're 81.

In Moab we met Swedish Lars. 69 years old. He is a retired doctor and spends almost all of his time on bicycle trips. He is typically at home for 2-3 weeks, to plan the next trip, of around 2-3 months, out in the world. We invited Lars to dinner and enjoyed his company. We talked, among other things a bit about the bikepacking route 'The White Rim'. A route that requires a special permit if you want to camp, and all the permits were sold out, far into the future. We would have liked to have driven the route, but did not want to cheat with the entrance, or risk the fine by being discovered.

3 days later, Lars could report on social media that he had cycled a good part of the route. We're not saying he had hacked his way in. We're just saying that we could not get a permit. But it's really fun and great that going bold has no age.

You don't go to the United States without going into a gun store and asking about a few different irons. So when, on a cold morning in southern New Mexico, we drove past a store with 'Guns' proclaimed on the sign outside, we of course turned the bikes off the road and stepped into the warmth.

In the small cozy shop you could buy fishing gear, camping equipment, coffee and weapons. There were both rifles, shotguns, pistols and revolvers. It was husband and wife who owned the shop. The wife stood behind the counter and was easy to talk to. We asked if we could buy a revolver that we could get out the door right away. She was a bit doubtful because we were not Americans. We looked a little at the paperwork it required, but I'm sure if we had tickled her a bit, it probably could have been done. But we left it there and instead tried to fish some guns off the shelves. And that's how it ended up that we were standing and fencing a bit unfamiliarly, with a home-built shotgun, with an 18-shot magazine, inside the shop. She only got a little angry when we got to pointing the hooves at each other. Her husband makes the shotguns in the workshop behind the store and they were quite proud of them. It was clearly not a hunting weapon, but certainly intended for more dubious purposes, seen from Danish eyes.

We talked a bit about gun laws, the recent school shootings, and the following demonstrations in the United States. Her position, of course, was that everyone needed a weapon. And as she said: "It's a problem when those extreme, left-wing teachers stand and tell students that if there are no weapons, then you can't shoot each other". We looked at each other speechless and couldn't find a suitable answer in the situation. Sometimes we can think of pressuring the people we talk to a little on their opinions, but here it was not so appropriate, and the tactic was to talk behind the lips. This is also how you learn a lot about people's attitudes. However, she was the most friendly person and we felt comfortable in the business. Even though we talked about controversial topics, she was just sweet and welcoming.

We cycled through the 'Wild West' on purpose. Most cyclists who cycle from Alaska to Argentina cycle through California because it is shorter and easier and the sun always shines. We've both been there. And we wanted to experience more of the 'real' America. We wanted to go out into the country a bit. To where people have voted for Trump, to see how people are here. And it has not disappointed us. People have been extremely nice. And no one has surpassed Uncle Jim.

In the small town of Farson, Wyoming, there is an ice cream shop known far and wide for its giant homemade ice cream cones. So even when we drove from Fruita, 2 days from Farson, we knew we had to stop at that ice cream shop. But it turned out to be significantly different than we had expected.

In the even smaller town of Eden, 5km before Farson, there is a café. Or maybe it's closer to a bar. A small unsightly blue wooden house. One of those places that you either drive past without paying attention, or that you poke your head in because you sense that there could be a fun experience hiding behind the blue walls. We did the latter.

Inside in the dark was a pool table, the brown wooden walls were plastered with beer advertisements in picture frames, the bar was long enough to seat twenty men. But all this we did not notice until later, for what beamed to meet us, and captured our undivided attention, were Uncle Jim and Faith. They each sat on their bar stools, with their faces turned towards us, the strangers, and almost shouted at each other. “Welcome. Where are you from. What are you doing here. Come in and take a seat. What do you want." Etc. etc.. They were very excited about the company that came through the door and the conversation was going strong, crossing people and the bar counter. We had a cup of coffee and the conversation continued lively. Uncle Jim had suffered a brain hemorrhage a few months ago, and lost some memory and some speech. But it didn't matter, because the bulb was still in order. When we asked for his name, he replied that we would probably like to hear his motorcycle name? Of course. And so it was Uncle Jim.

Faith was just called Faith. And she was proud of that. She was Uncle Jim's neighbor, and drove him to the doctor's check-up in a town far away. But as always, they had set aside plenty of time, brought packed lunches with them, and now they were sitting here having a little one with the coffee.

Uncle Jim had to go out for a smoke, and lured Kenneth along. Out on the stairs, in front of the blue wooden house, we talked about loose and fixed. Uncle Jim was willing to pay for a night and a dinner for us, in Farson, because his aunt had a motel and a restaurant there. It was 10 in the morning and we thought it was a bit early to stop cycling, and it was also a somewhat overwhelming offer. The end of it all was that Uncle Jim invited us to lunch instead. And we said yes. The plan was that he would drive to his aunt's and put some money for our lunch. I asked him to decide the food we should eat, and he was happy to do so.

We shook hands and it was a deal. Inside the bar, we thanked the coffee and had the bartender take a picture of us.

Back on the stairs, Jim put something in my pocket and patted me on the shoulder with an approving look as he asked if I knew what 'vicariously' meant. It means living through someone else, and he felt that he did. He wished he himself had done what we do, so therefore through his hospitality he would live a little of our adventure. We are only happy to share it with him.

We said goodbye and thanked him for his generosity. They drove off towards Farson by car, and we pointed the bikes in the same direction.

We talked about how great it is for a person like him to offer a lunch. And that it is the action itself that warms, and having the experience of talking to the two was fantastic. Lunch or not.

In Farson, their car was still parked in front of the restaurant. Out front stood Faith and welcomed us. The first thing she said was that they had put money in the ice cream shop so we could go there afterwards and get an ice cream. And then that she would drop the packed lunch so we could eat together at the restaurant.

Fantastic. We went inside and found the lively Uncle Jim entertaining the young maid.

Burgers were ordered for everyone, and we ate and had a great time. Faith and Uncle Jim picked on each other all the time, and they almost seemed like an old married couple who had humor like a good, strong glue. They were great to be with. Apple cake was put on the table for dessert, and the eternally hungry cyclists ate up of course.

Once again we said a warm and loving and grateful goodbye to the two before we went to the ice cream shop for dessert number 2. And THEN we were also so full that we couldn't move our ears.

I put my hand in my pocket to find out what Uncle Jim had put in there, and fished out a hundred dollars. It was completely incomprehensible and overwhelming. The generosity that Uncle Jim showed us that day, we feel obligated to pass on to anyone in our path who needs it. Even if we don't need the money, it was an act that expressed humanity to a degree that it can be understood.

As another cyclist we spoke to said:

"If you want to restore faith in humanity, go bicycle touring".

"If you want to restore your faith in humanity, take a bike ride".

…and this is exactly what we experience. The trust, the help and the love we meet when we travel in this way, we hope to bring with us for the rest of our lives, and pass on to all the people we meet on our way.

And it's not just Uncle Jim who has shown us hospitality. We have been invited in, invited for food, given money (although our Danish modesty always says no-thanks), so many times. We owe a huge thank you to Peggy and Greg for shelter and packed lunches, to The Willards for pancakes and coffee, to Lars Ulrik and Kirsten for a Danish evening and loan of their camper, to Elanor, John and Juniper for the drive in Mesa Verde National Park, to Caroline and Douglas for showing us a marijuana shop, to Jan for the hike, to Charlie for helping maintain the bikes, to Lisa and Riley for picking us up in front of the supermarket on a rainy day, to Terese and Douglas for pizza and beer, to David for warm friendship, to Iris for the jacket, and to so many many more for more shelter, more food, funny talks, to cheer us on and help us along the way. To open their arms and hearts to us.

We feel we have seen the 'real' USA, what some call 'fly-over-country'. We have met quite a few who vote for Trump. We have met people with guns in their belts. People who think that cyclists have no right to ride on the road. People with the 'wrong' political views. But what they all have in common has been that they have been extremely nice to us. We have talked together in a way that has made us smarter about each other. And people are not as shallow here as our prejudices might have told us.

We are really glad we chose this route through the USA.

The TV program 'Do you know the type?' ends always with the anthropologists meeting the owner of the house. And we did too. A few days after we drove from her home, Dawn called again. She said she would be at her cabin, up by a small forest lake, for the weekend. If it suited our schedule, we were welcome to come and spend the night. And it did.

And of course, Dawn was just as we imagined. Sweet and lovely. We ate mushrooms she had picked that day, fished in the lake and once again enjoyed the great American hospitality.

A huge and warm thank you to all the people who have given us a slice of their lives. We are deeply touched and grateful.