North Dakota isn’t on most bucket lists. Ask around, and you’ll hear that it’s cold, flat, and mostly empty. That’s the setup. The punchline is that a five-day drive through the state quietly unravels all of that. It’s a place that doesn’t shout its beauty—it waits for you to slow down, look closer, and adjust your expectations.
This isn’t a trip of obvious monuments or crowded streets. It’s a rhythm: small towns that surprise, landscapes that widen as you go west, and locals who seem bemused but pleased that you’re here. It’s driving not to get somewhere, but to let the terrain change you.
In five days, the road winds through storybook downtowns, abandoned grain elevators, surreal badlands, and sunflower fields that stretch forever. Meals are eaten slowly, often in places with hand-painted signs and local high school memorabilia on the walls. The best moments happen when you veer off the main road.
If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to have a national park nearly to yourself, to stand in a town square without traffic, or to sleep in a motel where the desk clerk also makes the cinnamon rolls, this route is worth taking. It’s not a checklist of landmarks—it’s a reintroduction to travel itself.
The Land is Bigger Than the Map
Fargo is the gateway for most east-to-west road trips across North Dakota. It’s also the first surprise. Downtown Fargo has the energy of a small city that’s figured out how to be cool without trying too hard. Walk Broadway—there are vintage shops, record stores, and the Fargo Theatre marquee lighting up the sidewalk. Grab a wood-fired pizza at Blackbird Woodfire, where local ingredients meet blistered crust in a minimalist setting. If you’re a coffee person, Youngblood Coffee is where the artists and architects meet.
Leave town on Highway 10, easing into the countryside where the Sheyenne River Valley Scenic Byway begins. This is the real start of the road trip—a winding drive through rolling hills, old farmsteads, and open skies. If the weather’s right, roll the windows down and let the prairie air do its thing.
In Valley City, stretch your legs on the North Country Trail. You’ll find footbridges, river views, and a surprising quiet that feels earned. Don’t skip the Rosebud Visitor Center, home to one of the state’s old railway depots and a snapshot of frontier-era life. There’s a rhythm here: small towns with one diner, one antique store, and one person who seems to run both.
By evening, pull into Jamestown, home of the world’s largest buffalo statue. It’s kitsch, sure—but it’s also kind of perfect. Walk the Frontier Village nearby, where replica buildings tell prairie stories, and peek into the National Buffalo Museum. You can even spot a live herd just beyond the statue.
Stay the night at the Gladstone Inn, where the décor may lean toward 1987, but the beds are clean and the front desk has pie recommendations. Before bed, take a walk downtown—empty streets, neon signs, and a sky full of stars.
Food Notes: This stretch is full of unsung gems: a beef jerky shack with 15 varieties, a pie diner where the rhubarb changes by the season, and an espresso trailer outside a car wash that somehow pulls better coffee than some big-city shops. You won’t find chain restaurants on this leg—just menus scribbled in marker and portions that assume you’re a rancher.
Between Ghost Towns and Painted Skies
The next day leans into the surreal. Head west from Jamestown toward the central prairie. Somewhere near Gackle or Wing, the land starts flattening into something almost mythic. You’ll pass grain elevators standing alone like forgotten sentinels and crossroads towns with no more than a church, a post office, and a faded gas pump. Stop anyway. These are the best places for photos, journal entries, or just sitting in the car and listening to nothing.
At Chase Lake National Wildlife Refuge, a short detour brings a shift in pace. There are trails here—not long or grueling—but they lead to views that stretch wider than they seem possible. White pelicans nest here in one of the largest colonies in North America. You might see them lift off all at once, white wings catching the light. No one’s around. Just you, the wind, and maybe a whitetail deer in the grass.
Consider camping. If you brought gear, there are small-town campsites with honesty boxes and no Wi-Fi. If not, find a B&B in a town with a name you don’t recognize. Expect to be asked where you’re from. Expect to stay up later than planned, sipping something warm while the host tells you about the blizzard of ’96 or the year the town’s high school won state basketball.
This leg of the journey is for resetting your clock. It’s less about where you’re going and more about letting go of needing to know.
Badlands, Good Feet
By now, the prairie has done its work. It’s stripped the noise from your mind and left space for what’s next. Theodore Roosevelt National Park is where the volume turns back up—not with sound, but with color, shape, and movement.
Start at the South Unit Visitor Center in Medora. Pick up a map and head for the Scenic Loop Drive. The loop alone offers miles of pullouts, vistas, and wildlife. But the short hikes are what make this stretch unforgettable.
Wind Canyon Trail is a quick uphill stroll with a reward that feels disproportionate to the effort: layered cliffs cut by water, breeze across the grass, and hawks riding thermals. Painted Canyon Overlook is good for catching shadows shifting across the earth. Buck Hill at sunset is the real prize—bring a windbreaker, and maybe a flask.
The wildlife here doesn’t hide. You’ll see bison lumbering across the road, wild horses grazing in the distance, and prairie dogs chirping near their burrows. You might need to wait for a bison to finish crossing. You won’t mind.
Medora itself is a pocket-sized town built for visitors, but not overrun. If it’s summer, catch the Medora Musical, a country-western show set against the backdrop of the badlands. Whether or not you like musicals doesn’t really matter—it’s an open-air amphitheater under a sky that goes on forever.
Dinner comes with a view at the Pitchfork Steak Fondue, where steaks are actually skewered on pitchforks and cooked over open flames. The setup is theatrical, but the taste is all business.
Stay the night at Elkhorn Quarters or book a cabin tucked into the hills. The quiet after a day of walking and sun feels earned. The stars show up. Your phone might not.
Small Towns, Big Tables
Heading east again doesn’t mean winding down. The road through Dickinson starts the soft return. Stop for breakfast at the Farmhouse Café, where the servers know the regulars by name and the portions assume you’ll be in the fields by noon. The biscuits are worth it.
If museums are your thing, the Dakota Dinosaur Museum is delightfully odd—fossils, models, and gift shop energy from another era. Or pick a local history museum in any small town you pass—there’s always one, often staffed by someone who used to teach fourth grade and now curates homesteader artifacts with quiet pride.
Don’t skip New Salem. It’s a detour, but the Salem Sue statue (a giant Holstein cow) perched on a hilltop is the sort of photo you’ll be glad you took. Plus, the view from up there is full-circle prairie.
Dinner in Bismarck brings you back to something resembling urban pace. Try Humpback Sally’s, a spot where the dishes rotate with what’s fresh. Or head to a craft brewery with a short menu and long communal tables. Here’s where restaurant furniture actually makes a difference—wood, steel, and mismatched stools that somehow hold a town together.
Sleep at a downtown boutique hotel if you’re up for one last bit of charm—or pick a roadside inn with character and a neon sign humming outside your window.
The Road Bends Back
The last day of the loop is for processing. As you drive eastward, retracing parts of your route, the landscape feels different—not because it’s changed, but because you have.
Stop at a roadside shop you passed before but didn’t enter. Try the sunflower honey. Ask about the jar of chokecherry jelly. It’s these small things that stay with you.
The wind doesn’t stop in North Dakota. It runs across the plains like a constant low hum, pressing against your car and reminding you how big the sky is. The vastness that once felt empty now feels like space—room to think, feel, and just be.
There’s something grounding about seeing so much land with so few people. It shrinks the ego. It invites quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t empty but full of thought.
You might not come back soon. But you’ll talk about this trip more than you expect. Not in grand, dramatic ways—but in small ones. You’ll mention the espresso trailer. The pelicans. The motel with the cinnamon rolls. And maybe, without meaning to, you’ll tell someone that North Dakota isn’t boring after all. They might not believe you. That’s fine. The road’s still there. Let them take the turn next time.
