Here again was another day in which I had a specific destination. Normally, I would have a tentative destination in mind that I may or may not reach, and for the most part, it wasn’t that important. Today, however, I was awaiting a package in a town called Ashburn. Ashburn was merely a name on my bike maps with a zip code. This is all the information I needed in order to get a package sent to me. This, and that it had a population of 89, was all I knew about the little town of Ashburn. I would come to learn a whole lot more about the town and its people in the coming couple of days.
(write more based on page 42 of journal)
When I reached Ashburn, it was already dark, so I headed on through to find a place to camp at the DuPont Reservation Wildlife Area – an old dynamite plant donated to the state when the company shut down in the 1930’s. I rode through mosquitoes and gnats as thick as smoke to this area on the muddy banks of the Mississippi River. It was apparently rather waterlogged due to flooding and I found a relatively dry spot to set up, surrounded by the muck. This was one instance where my mosquito uniform really came in handy while setting up. I cant’ imagine setting up without it. As it was, I was jumping, and shaking, and waving my arms and legs around while digging through my bags to get the uniform.
The following morning I headed to the Ashburn post office to pick up my package and, to my surprise, was greeted enthusiastically by postmaster Betty Jean Clark. She had been waiting for my arrival. Apparently, in a town of 80 or so people the postal clerk knows all the residents rather well. After receiving my package with an unfamiliar name, she called the number to see if there was a mistake. Instead she talked to my Mother who informed here of my trip and story. This was quite an event I guess, as, upon my arrival, she called several people in town who came by to see. Several citizens came out to this crazy cyclist from Florida who was on his way to Alaska. They took pictures and one lady even brought me a homemade lunch. Betty Jean Clark, it seems, also happens to write for the local postal journal. Many of the nations smaller post offices are being phased out due to administrative costs and such. She wrote an article about my trip and choice of small post offices for the receipt of packages.
I enjoyed staying there on the Mississippi River. I was completely alone and it was the first time I truly got a chance to see the river. I caught a glimpse of it in Natchez, MS from high on a cliff, and I crossed it going into Cape Girardeau, MO, where I had to spend my time concentrating on riding my bike across the large metal bridge. Now I was camped out right on it. I watched the barges contest their way up and down the river. It was not the cleanest body of water I’ve encountered – but it was the Mississippi. That legendary river. Larger than life. The first truly American landmark that I had come across. The historical river, immortalized by Mark Twain in such tales as Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.
The town of Ashburn is less than 20 miles south of Hannibal – Mark Twain’s hometown. This was to be the next town I would pass through after leaving Ashburn, and the last stretch of land I would ride in the state of Missouri. I would leave Missouri behind to experience quite a sheer variation in terrain. When I left Missouri in my wake, I also, more or less, dispensed with hills. I was a new cyclist. I would not again endure such vertical challenges, endlessly abrupt altitude changes until I was well into Canada. I had a reprieve from the daily grind of never-ending leg crunches. I was in the Mississippi River flood plain. A flatter stretch of land did not exist – not even in Florida.
These new horizontal surfaces were a welcome relief. A much needed and long overdue cool down period for my riding and me. After two months of riding I felt like I was finally in shape. I did get a late start and am just glad to make it to Quincy, Illinois. I even spent $12 on a campground – a small fortune. The people there were cool and they could tell I wasn’t happy about the price, but they didn’t own the place. They let me do some free laundry though and didn’t charge me for some post cards I wanted to buy. It is difficult sometimes going to campgrounds on a bicycle because most are set up for vehicles with hook-ups for water and electricity. A bike doesn’t take up much space and I often camp in an area that isn’t even a real spot. Some campgrounds account for this and will charge only $3 – $5 or a little more to camp, but others only have their set prices.
June 4th took me further north through eastern Illinois. I went through a town called Warsaw where a man in the street invited me to get drunk at the bar that night. I passed, and continued on to Hamilton where I got on the Great River Road. This was a very scenic section of road along the Mississippi River, with lots of trees and rocks and cliff-sides running adjacent to the winding road. I met a group of Amish people fishing in the river at a roadside stop. They asked me questions about my trip. They had traveled all the way from New York to visit relatives in Northern Illinois.
My next stop was Nauvoo, which was the birthplace of the Mormon religion. Church founder Joseph Smith named the town, which is said to mean ????????? After the Mormons left, the town was settled by Icarians, a group of French communists. They only lasted about 10 years. I stopped at a burger joint where I spoke to the owners, who spend winters in Dade City, Florida – about 40 miles from where I live.
I spent a good deal of time in Nauvoo, but didn’t have far to go to get to Dallas City, where I planned to camp at the city park. When I arrived shortly before dark, there was a little league baseball game going on. It said on the map that camping was allowed with the permission of the local police. It was very crowded due to the game and I retreated to the far end of the park under a picnic shelter – a popular choice of camping spots when I am able to find one. There didn’t seem to be any fresh water around. While I was asking around, a lady offered me her water from a thermos she carried with her from Wisconsin. I told her about my trip and how I would be heading through Wisconsin – this is actually literally true – twice, in fact, I will be crossing the river into Wisconsin and camping. It’s on the bicycle maps and it will get me another state under my belt. While getting the water, a police car drove by, so I asked him about camping. He didn’t mind at all. So now, at least, I’m legal. Its always nice peace of mind to know I won’t get kicked out of my spot, even though it never happens. The game finally ends, everybody leaves, and I am left alone – but not in peace and quiet. There is a very loud train that goes by my tent every 15 minutes, it seems. All night it runs, and there are houses here too. I guess they must just get used to it. I did actually; I had no trouble falling asleep. The one time in the life of this insomniac I actually am able to fall easily asleep – after riding a bicycle all day.
The next day I awake and, go to the river to bath. This river is filthy. I fill my shower bag and take a nasty Mississippi River shower. While riding through the town of Lomax, I meet a man named Gene Roark who tells me of these German Cyclists he allowed to stay at his house one time. He gives me his address and asks me to send him a card when I get to Alaska, which I do. I have been acquiring a list of people who ask for cards from Alaska. (Rehash list o f people here)
I meet interesting people wherever I go. I guess when you are riding a bicycle loaded with stuff, people are inclined to come shoot the breeze with you. It was incredible. No matter where I was people would come up to me and start talking, asking questions; People I would not normally expect to come up and start a conversation with a complete stranger would now invite me to dinner, or to take a shower at their house, bring me food, or even money. I meet this one old guy with no fingers on a bicycle, riding down the road at the Big River State Forest. He complains about the government selling parklands, and the rudeness of motorists in Henderson County. I have been through Florida, allegedly the rudest state in the nation concerning cyclists, and the South in general, where I ran into my share of assholes – so if there was rudeness up here, I didn’t really notice it. Not since Louisiana, Missouri have I experienced blatant rudeness. In fact, the further north I proceed, the friendlier people seem to get.
I am, once again, in the Mississippi River flood plain, a very flat low-lying terrain. My path takes me three miles off the main road to a free campground on the Mississippi River called Blanchard Island. There, I meet this guy camping who, it turns out, lives in the area and is just camping out at different spots for the hell of it. Barry Wakeland is 18 and I hang out with him and drink beer and make fires. His girlfriend and sister work in a factory across the river in Muscatine, Iowa – a large city for what I’ve been used to with a population of almost 40,000. I will be passing through Muscatine when I leave, but I get a preview of the city several times as I drive with Barry to town to get beer or to take his girlfriend to work. They live in Illinois, but their postal addresses are for Iowa. The Illinois side of the river is so sparsely populated. I wind up hanging out with them for two days and three nights. It is the first time on my trip I really hang with the locals. I meet Barry’s father, Pete and a friend of theirs, Jim. We went out to a piece of property they bought with money Barry’s aunt won on a Mississippi River boat. We did 360’s in an old truck on the property and partied some more with Pete, Michelle, at the campground. I could have ended up staying there forever if I didn’t eventually motivate myself to leave. It was too easy to stay, since I was having so much fun. Barry wanted me to go to some races on June 8th, three days after arriving there. I wanted to but I had to get going. (Talk about steep hill)
I finally left Blanchard Island, and my new friends, behind and headed over the bridge across the Mississippi River for the last time, and the first time on my bicycle – into Muscatine, IA. Muscatine was a big enough city for me to get lost. I was searching for a bicycle path listed on my bike map. I never found it wound up heading straight to the highway. Upon leaving Muscatine, I found Iowa to be, well, pretty much like I expected Iowa to be – flat, and surrounded by cornfields. I spent most of the entire day riding due north on road Y14. The scenery didn’t change too much, but it was nice, peaceful. At a town called Massillon, I pulled into a camping spot in the county park, which was right on the Wapsipinicon River. While there I was given some firewood by a couple in an RV. While telling them of my trip they said that they heard of me on TV and the radio. Apparently, Mary Jean Clark of the Ashburn, Missouri post office had called CNN. This stretch of Midwest through Minnesota offered me similar notoriety, as I was interview by two small town newspapers.
It is June 9th, and I am beginning to experience a nagging aspect of Iowa – namely, gnats. I have never seen anything quite like it. They are like clouds – I had to wrap a shirt around my head all day long. There are actually hills in Iowa. But more like the benign Florida variety than the Tennessee/Kentucky/Missouri type, so it was hard to even call them hills. The wind rushed in very strongly from the East and, even though I was heading north, it was very noticeable and affected my riding. It is interesting the surprises that can hit you out of nowhere. I had never heard of a town called Dyersville, Iowa. I have seen a movie called Field of Dreams. While riding through an endless series of cornfields and, effectively lost in meditation that the monotony can bring, I passed a sign reading: “Thanks for visiting Field of Dreams movie site”. What?! I had to turn around to be sure of what I had just read. After a little more riding in the direction I had just come I realized that, yes, this was, in fact, the road to the site where the movie was filmed. The house and baseball field were still there, right in the middle of the cornfields. Of course, tourist stands had now been added. I experienced the Field of Dreams, bought some souvenirs, and headed into the town of Dyersville, where I camped that night at the city park.
The next day,[talk about gravel road] I planned to make it to a campground in Marquette, but for some reason, I was very tired. I’m being maybe a little paranoid and hypochondriacally,{maybe put this somewhere else[ still thinking of tick bites and Lyme disease ]}but I am probably just lethargic from over training, not eating enough of the things I should, and I definitely don’t drink enough water. For whatever reason, I ride by the town of Elkader and see a campground. I am still about 35 miles from my destination and almost turn around – then I do turn around. I hesitate, starting to head on back to the highway, but am drawn, finally, by a combination of fatigue and laziness, to circle back to the comforts of the campground here in Elkader, Iowa.
I never regret stopping, after the guilt wears off. I know in my mind I shouldn’t feel this way – I do have deadlines though. This is supposed to be a vacation, something fun – but in truth, there is nothing really fun about it at all. I am beginning to think that fun is something just for kids. This trip is rewarding – it is fulfilling in respect to being on a mission and in setting goals, and pursuing, and accomplishing them. But I start to realize that the only time in life I can say I am actually having fun is as a child in all innocence. While not under the influence of drugs or alcohol, there is excitement, there is self-gratification, there is even wonder and amazement – but there is nothing called fun. This trip is difficult, it is often agonizingly painful, and I am suffering a good deal of the time. Why am I doing it, I often ask myself. To see what happens next? The exhilaration of accomplishing a long-term goal? Having some thing to write about? I have had this conversation not only with myself, but with other cyclists I’ve passed along the way. We all agree on one thing – it isn’t fun. It is, however, the most positive and rewarding thing I have ever done. It may just all come down to semantics – An adventure is a grown-ups version of fun.
It is always the dilemma I am in, though. To stop or to keep going. When I keep going I realize I am just pushing myself and it takes away from the enjoyment somewhat. But as long as I have put at least a decent amount of miles behind me – how much is ‘decent’? – I am always satisfied, once I’ve set up and can relax. Especially when there is still enough daylight to walk around and do things. Today I went about 41 miles. I guess if I go 40 miles or more – it is decent.
Elkader turns out to be a pretty nice little town. It is a town with some history, reflected in its old style buildings and cobblestone bridge, which spans the Turkey River. I am enjoying taking a day off here in Elkader. A lady I talked to at the camp passes me as I explore downtown and is pleased that I am interested in seeing here city. The people in these midwestern small towns are proud of their communities and it always shows. The way the town is maintained, the neatness and cleanliness of the parks and public places, and the general attitude displayed as the people walk around the town is indicative of the esteem they feel and their sense of community.[talk about politics and racism]
Another cyclist camps out next to me and we have a huge pile of wood at our disposal that we use quite liberally to rage an awesome campfire. He goes off to a bar and I stay to be hypnotized by the fire on into the night. Demons leap from out of the fire as I exorcize my own demons. I have been irritable lately. While walking through town during the day I flipped off some guy on a backhoe and we exchanged words. It is probably a good thing I stopped, I really needed the rest. I bought two tires in town but later walked back to return them because they were ugly, with whitewalls. I don’t know why it didn’t really hit me when I was at the store buying them in the first place.
Now, when I think of Iowa, I think of flat. I don’t know how many people realize, though, that Iowa has a Northeastern section that defies everything the rest of the state seems to encompass. Cliffs – steep roads. Overlooking the Mississippi River, we come across terrain that has been worn down over the eons, creating its own miniature canyons. It is entertaining to once again come upon the Mississippi, but I am fully expecting to see it again and again. The Adventure Cycling maps call this the Great River Route with the Mighty Mississippi as the centerpiece. Here, once again on the brink of the now familiar river, I pull into a town called Lansing, and am, once again, trying to find somewhere to camp before it gets dark. The sign says Mosswersomething Park – that way. So I go that way. The road winds up a mountain like a broken spring, and I am forced to push my bike up a seemingly endless sharp corner of which there is no ending. I am resolved, at this point, that when it does finally end, that is where I am camping, whether I am supposed to or not. When I do get there, of course, the signs say ‘no camping’. I stash my stuff in a picnic shelter and enjoy the unbelievable view overlooking the Mississippi with all its islands, and the bluffs across the way in Wisconsin.
The park closed at 9:00 PM and the sun set at 8:48, so I waited in the woods on a small cliff overlooking a bend in the road coming up. After watching a cop drive up, and then back down after that, the park was mine. I got up early to wash my hair at the water fountain, but not early enough to beat the maintenance guy who drove up just then.
On the way back down the mountain (which was named after a famous sculptress from the 1850’s who won a footrace up it during a steamboat layover) I was flying down the steep winding road when I suddenly deeply regretted not tightening my very loose brakes. I found myself in a bad situation. The very last turn coming down the hill sharply turned at a 90-degree angle.
I couldn’t stop going around the last steep corner with the railing ahead. Sure I was going to crash, I threw it sideways like the motorcycles in the races on TV going around the bend. I didn’t wipe out or skip, I just flung around real quick and found myself, again, immediately in a grass patch with a 5-6 foot drop ahead. I threw it harder sideways again, and skidded sideways through the grass, several feet with the back tire in front and the front one in back. That was close.
Today’s excitement would not end there. This road heading North along the Mississippi River was the only one headed this direction anywhere close to where I was. The sign said that the bridge was out 8 miles ahead. I took my chances. I did not want a long detour and was concentrating on what my options would be in the case of the bridge being out. There was a railroad track paralleling the road so I figured that, at the very least, I could cross on it. I started thinking of the movie ‘Stand by Me’, for some reason. I was remembering the time at the Indian Ford Bridge in the Blackwater State Forest.
As it turns out, I didn’t need to stop – in fact, I didn’t stop at all. The bridge was out, like the sign said, but the construction crew had a makeshift bridge made out of wood. I flew right through the construction site and across the slipshod mess of boards that spanned the little river before anyone could tell me I wasn’t allowed.
I finally made it to Minnesota and I am so glad. My attitude has been elevated by another milestone. I drive of my route to find this campground listed on the map. A lady had the campground set up in here yard which, to my horror, I find is $15. No deal, but she tells me to go to Winona Prairie Island. (People up here really do talk like they do in the movie Fargo) I make it to Winona and it is not much better at $12. It was a nice night, though. I left the rain fly off my tent, even though it was windy, and got good nights sleep.
I woke up the next morning, bought a loaf of bread, peanut butter, and jelly at the campground office. At this point in the trip I am pretty sick of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. My diet doesn’t vary too much on this trip, and along with, canned beans, canned corn, and Spagetios, stale, bland sandwiches are what I eat most of the time. I can’t complain, though, I do stop for burgers from time to time, and snack on cookies, candy, and other high sugar, high carbohydrate foods. This is one occasion I know my body burns most of what I eat. I do think I’m not getting enough food, and especially protein, though.
The riding has pretty easy the last couple of days, since I arrived in Minnesota. I don’t know how much of that is merely a psychological boost from having made it this far, but I do know the weather is great. The sun is bright and hot and the breeze is cool. It’s been in the 80’s during the day and the mid to upper 50’s at night, which is perfect. The terrain is relatively flat except when I leave the river to cross the bluffs.
After leaving Winona, I rode through Wabasha, and up a long, steep hill with a rest area on top where I stopped to eat an apple. A group of women drove up on motorcycles, and stopped to take pictures. We helped each other take pictures of each other and they interviewed me for a magazine called ‘Women of Wheels’. They were on their way to Lancaster, Pennsylvania for a get-together.
I made it to Kruger Park, which I though was supposed to be free, but I should have know better, seeing as this is Minnesota and their camping fees are nothing short of robbery. As I sit here at this isolated, primitive campground near Wabasha, MN, I decide to take the day off and relax. I read a lot of my Backpacker and Outside magazines. I have a good time making a fire and just relaxing. I met a couple who were there mountain biking with these hugely expensive mountain bikes with all types of expensive parts. They were amazed and impressed at me heading to Alaska on a one hundred and something dollar Motiv steel body bicycle, and they couldn’t believe how much stuff I was taking with me, as they surveyed my campground with all my stuff laid out. We talked about mountain biking and lightweight bike components and how expensive they were and such.
As I sat there at Kruger Park, I resigned myself to taking a full six months to get to Fairbanks, if necessary. I need to figure it all out. I made my way out of there, glad to have not paid. The ATM at the grocery in Lake City only gave a choice of taking $20 or $100. I didn’t want that much but took the $100. It is good that I did. I bought $35 worth of groceries, and, finally finding a bike shop in Red Wing, I bought two new tires for $46. I bought road tires this time to try something new. They were quite a contrast to the mountain bike tires I had been using the entire trip up to that point. They were 1.5’s and smoother that smooth. The riding became much smoother and easier with these new tires but it would not be without a price. The mountain bike tires had taken me about 2700 miles from Florida to Minnesota, and the only flats I got were from those sandspurs near Brooksville, Florida on my fourth day of riding. This display of ruggedness would not be the case with these new tires, however.
It goes to figure that, an hour after I pulled out of Red Wing with my new tires, I would find myself on the worst road of the entire trip up to that point. I had just passed into the state of Wisconsin, and was making my merry way down highway 35. I am not inclined to take detours on a bicycle, as it would take me an immeasurable distance from my path. I have always taken my chances and come out all right in the end, though it was pretty hairy during those treks not knowing if I would definitely make it through. Having no idea what lie up ahead, and what obstacles might greet me could be nerve-racking, but was all part of the adventure. I realized this as I encountered these little quirks and this is why I was not ever too concerned. I realized that if the trail didn’t go through it was not the end of the world. At worst, I would have to backtrack and, possible end up camping out right there if it got too late. Besides, it always gives me more material to write about later. Well, highway 35 turned out to be the worst road simply because it became more and more primitive as I went along. The new tires got a good initiation going downhill on a dirt and rock road, and held out great – and with 85pounds of pressure in them. First gravel, and big rocks, then packed dirt, then soft sand, which I could not ride through. I no longer had my mountain bike tires, and was starting to regret it, but then the road got to the point where mountain bike tires wouldn’t have helped me anyway. I was now pushing. To where, and for how long, I didn’t know.
I finally made to where the construction – or destruction – of the road ended. There were a couple of people at their house to greet me as I ducked under the construction barriers. They talked of bicyclists riding through and camping in their yard. I was almost inclined to ask them if I could do the same, but didn’t, and continued on to Prescott, Wisconsin. Here I find myself at Freedom Park – named for an Eagle they released here in the 80’s. It’s a nice city park with camping, occupied mainly by RVs and small trailers. I am set up at the far end on a bluff overlooking the St, Croix River, and the view is unbelievably beautiful. I walked down to the town of Prescott to call home and reflect upon how good I feel now, and that I must be getting in shape. I walk back in time to watch a really cool sunset.
Today, I ride from Prescott, Wisconsin to Osceola, Wisconsin, with a little Minnesota in between. It was cloudy and cold most of the day. I have been riding faster, which is good because I need to get more miles behind me. I have only been going around 50 miles a day lately, and the terrain hasn’t been too bad. I am looking forward to getting into northern Minnesota, which is supposed to be very flat, and with many lakes. Upon arriving in Osceola, I immediately search for the post office, as I am scheduled to pick up a package here. I get a $20 bill from my dad, some stamps, etc. I also need a Laundromat pretty bad, and am delighted to find one here. I was going to crash in this secluded spot but after making some phone calls I find a campground for $5 and head there. I made a sack of bologna and cheese sandwiches, then ate three of them, some donuts, a banana, and a pear. I noticed that a couple bananas and a pack of sugar wafers had fallen out – probably going down that rocky hill of a detour the day before.
June the 18th. I eat at a Hardys (mistake) and attempt to make it to Ogilvie. It is cloudy and cold all day and I stumble across a campground that will charge me only $3 a day since I’m on a bike. I decide to stop here, and take a day off as well. This place has a swimming pool. I broke out the new inflatable raft that I got at Johnson’s Shut-Ins State Park in Missouri when I exchanged the one with a hole. I walked up to a lake and swam in the pool a couple times.
After leaving Springvale, I was headed north. The Adventure Cycling map that goes from Stark, MN to Fargo, North Dakota has two choices of route in which to accomplish this. One is pretty straightforward, and shorter, but the longer one takes you through more interesting scenes. I take the longer route. I definitely am not taking the short cut to Alaska. My trail zigzags here and there, and my final mileage of 7100 miles is plenty more than a direct route would have yielded. It is important for me to balance the desire to make good time with the desire to enjoy my trip, and I’m not in that crazy of a hurry yet.
Either way, I end up breaking my world record today by riding 82 miles to get to the town of Aitkin. While doing some shopping I meet a red-haired girl from The University of Wisconsin majoring in Environmental science. She is down here to teach some class for a couple days and she ends up camping in the city park where I go. She has a job, which involves paddling around lakes in northern Wisconsin counting frogs.
The next morning when I awoke, there was someone from the local paper there to interview me about my trip, and take some pictures. On the way, I stopped in a town called Pallisade to grab a burger to eat. I talked to the girl behind the counter about my trip, and she gave me her address, and asked me to send her a card from anywhere. I did. I sent her several cards from several places, including, of course, Alaska. I make it to Judy Garland’s hometown of Grand Rapids getting my second highest mileage of 78 miles. I camped out in a clearing in the woods near Pokegama Lake.
June 22nd, and I am on my way, having cruised about 6-7 miles, when I realized I had left my cooler behind in the woods. I was talking with some cyclist who was going from Seattle to Pittsburgh. After he left I wanted to eat something and the cooler that straps to my handlebars was not there. I backtracked to get it and wasted a bunch of time, but I also had to pace my self on this Sunday so as not to pass my next mail pick-up. It also caused me to get the 3000th mile of my trip on the return trip toward Grand Rapids. Even so I go 67 miles today as I make it to the Leetch Lake Indian Reservation. I am on Cass Lake at the Knudsen Dam. It is actually the Mississippi River again. As it flows through endless lakes such as this I sit and reacquaint myself with this once great river that has followed me for most of my trip. As the distance remaining to Alaska shrinks, so does the river. I have watched it go from a monstrous body of water, crossing it on massive bridges, which themselves are great structures, to a mere stream that I’ve crossed on tiny footbridges. Today I sit at a small dam as what’s left of the mighty Mississippi dumps into the Cass Lake.
I have reached a campground with Christmas trees. They are Spruce or something and I think they are just great. The mosquitoes and flies here are the worst they have ever been. Minnesota has an incredibly annoying pest in the form of a large fly that has a sharp bite. In Florida the flies are small and don’t bite, but these huge bugs not only bite – actually they bite a chunk out of your skin, then lap up the blood that pools up in the hole – but they are able to keep up with me on my bike. No matter how fast I go these things fly right along with me, circling me as if I were standing still. Mocking me as I pedal my ass off, they buzz in my face, and bite me every chance they get. I get no greater pleasure that when I am able to smack one, then watch as it tumbles to the road. The mosquitoes are annoying but usually fly very slow. It is when I have stopped that I have to deal with those bloodsuckers. I am stopped now. This is beautiful country, and very scenic campground. I would like to say I really enjoyed it and the day off I took here, but between the bugs and the frequent rain, I rarely left my tent.
The following day was all rain too. I didn’t go all that far today. I missed a road and ended up in a town called Lavinia, north of Bemidji. I stopped to do laundry and talked to the man in the store where I bought some more junk food. Upon mentioning that I was from Florida, he asked me why I talked like a Yankee. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I though he was accusing me of having a New York accent, as that is what I think of when I think of Yankee, but he was making the point that I didn’t have a southern accent. I explained that, although Florida is geographically in the south, it is not a true southern state. I live in the Tampa Bay area, which is a metropolis of over two million people. Furthermore, most of the population of Florida is actually from up north. In fact, only about 30% of Florida’s population was actually born there.
I’m one of the minority who can actually call myself a Florida native, but my dad is from New Jersey, and my mom is from Milwaukee. It is something you tend to notice in Florida mainly in rural areas that the southern accents start to come out, and of course, you hear the ‘Yankee’ accents everywhere. I never though of myself as even having an accent. I have heard the thick southern accents for most of my trip as I moved through the south. Then around Iowa, I start noticing the Midwest ‘Fargo’ accent which really becomes apparent in Minnesota. It is almost like a Canadian accent up here. Not quite, it wasn’t until I actually got to Canada that I noticed the distinction and until then, had not connected the two.
While I was doing laundry, the man who commented on my accent called the Bemidji newspaper, and I was surprised to have a reporter approach me and start asking me questions. Twice this has happened to me and both times it was in Minnesota.
Well, I passed through Bemidji, and the weather started clearing up. I was trying, again, to pace myself, in order to not pass a mail pick-up destination. I was due to pick up a package in a town called Lake Itasca. I didn’t really need to make all these mail stops, but I guess the novelty of getting mail out here, far from home, at these little post offices, along with my mom’s obvious joy in sending stuff, bound and compelled this ritual to continue. Well this caused me to camp out in the woods near the town of Becida – that is if you want to call something with a population of 10 a town. (It even is listed as having a post office, though that is no longer the case).
This was a really strange night. I set up my came out here in the middle of nowhere, and spent considerable time in an attempt to tie my food bags up. The trees didn’t really have branches, so I was trying to rig it by tying a rope around one and pulling it tight around a sort of leaning tree, and I managed to sort of make it work. It is very important to tie up the food, and anything that ever had food in it. I read plenty about the topic in newsgroups and outdoors magazines but still had to find out the hard way with squirrels, raccoons, and other critters getting into, and chewing up my stuff. I didn’t even make it out of Florida without having my bags shredded on several occasions. My little handle bar had long since had the zipper chewed of it. Well, those were little animals. Now I am in bear country. I’m the type of person who always seems to have to learn everything the hard way, but I don’t want to find out the hard way what bears can do. (As it would turn out, this was almost the case).
As I lie awake that night I am thinking about how unbelievably silent it is way out here in the middle of nowhere. While I’m reflecting on the incredible peacefulness of being so far removed from civilization, loud country music suddenly starts blaring from absolutely nowhere – weird!
My pacing it to Itasca was a waste. When I got there, there was no there there. The place didn’t exist. There was a store, which used to act as a post office but since they no longer did that, they sent my stuff to Park Rapids, wherever that is. I had to call Park Rapids and have them forward it to Rugby, North Dakota – just a name with a zip code, which happened to be on my trail. I had no idea how far away it was or when I’d be there, but it was the geographical center of North America, so it had to be a really special place to pick up mail.
I am here in Itasca on my way to Lake Itasca. I have been looking forward to seeing this lake. This is not just any old lake. According to the people who somehow are able to figure out stuff about the face of the Earth that are not immediately obvious – or remotely figure-outable as far as I can tell – according to these wise souls, this lake, Lake Itasca, is the source of the Mississippi River. It is hard to believe, after having traced this river for all this time, that this huge river had come down to a small trickle of water, flowing out of this inconspicuous lake.
I made it to a town called Callaway. This will be my last night camping in Minnesota. It has been eleven days since I first arrived in Land of 10,000 lakes. This is by far the longest I’ve spent in any one state. Apart from the horseflies and the high costs, I liked Minnesota. The people of Iowa and Minnesota have been among the friendliest I’ve ever met. In many respects, I am also leaving behind the world, as I’ve always known it. Trees, humidity, people – have always been plentiful to me. The coming weeks and months would see these things slowly start to fade away. For now, I was looking forward to Fargo, North Dakota.
Not sure exactly why. The movie “Fargo” was one of my favorites, and a topic I’ve brought up a lot in conversations with Minnesotans, as the majority of the movie takes place in their state. Curiously, though, it was not too popular a flick with the people here. As a rather violent, dark comedy, it did not win too many fans in the predominantly rural areas I passed through. Apparently, residents weren’t too flattered with the parody of their accents and mannerisms. Though the movie’s characters are supposedly exaggerated, to my untrained ears, they were pretty accurate. I don’t know what I was expecting in the city of Fargo, but the novelty of heading there was enough to keep me excited.
Fargo, with a population of around 74,000, would also be the largest city I’d pass through after nearly three months on the road. My last morning in Minnesota saw me eating breakfast at a small diner in Callaway. A man overheard my conversation with the people at the table next to me about my trip. Excitedly, he interrupted to let me know he read about me in the Bemidji newspaper. I had forgotten all about the man at the Laundromat in Lavinia, and the interview. I hadn’t even gotten a paper in Bemidji, so I never got to see what it said.
I entered Fargo from the north and rode almost the entire length of the city to get to my campground at Lindenwood Park. I camped on the bank of the Red River. 1997 was the year of the great flood of the Red River, and the watermark was visible twenty something feet up the trees. Many trees had garbage, and large objects wedged in their upper reaches. I decided to take the day off there in Fargo. I’ve done a lot of walking on my days off, but never as much as I did in Fargo. I realized this was my best opportunity to find a doctor to check me for Lyme disease. I walked in to the health clinic and described my situation. The doctor told me that the type of ticks I described were not the type that carry the disease – that the Lyme disease ticks were much smaller, and dark in color. I was relieved to hear that. I guess it was all in my head, and reasoned my lethargy was just from over training.
I walked all over town. I passed a guy on the street who looked just like an old roommate of mine from years ago. I called out his name, “Tom”, and he turned around. I repeated “Tom”, and he said “Yeah”. I couldn’t believe it, what are the odds of seeing my old Florida friend up here in North Dakota. He didn’t seem to recognize me so to make sure it was him I said his last name. He said that wasn’t his name. Wow! That was strange.
I wanted to see a movie. I had not seen a movie since “The Wizard of Oz” at my sister’s house in Palm Harbor. I thought it would be cool to see the movie “Fargo” in Fargo but it was no longer playing anywhere. (Yeah, I get ideas like that). I made it to the mall and saw a movie called “Devils Own” with Brad Pitt and Harrison Ford. It wasn’t that great.
I was totally exhausted from walking all day. It was very hot to top it off – in the mid 90’s. It couldn’t have been hotter in Florida, I thought. The lack of humidity was the only difference. I guess it gets hot just about everywhere. That night on the Red River, I was able to find the constellations of Bootes and Corona Borealis.
Its fun to reach milestones. Geography and time are not the only yardsticks I use to gauge my progress. Passing into another state or another month are definitely causes for celebration, but today as I leave Fargo, I pass into another Adventure Cycling map.
Each map covers 300-400 miles or so, and this new map I unfold will guide me the 310 miles from Fargo, ND to Minot, ND. I don’t eat up too much of this map today – I go about 44 miles to a free campground on the Erie dam. Although it was cloudy all day, I like it here now; it’s nice here, overlooking a lake. At night I am able to find my star constellations in the night sky again, only this time even clearer. I am out in the middle of nowhere and I have never seen so many stars in the sky. I even thought I saw the Little Dipper.
North Dakota is very different to me. It the towns are like small islands on a sea of green. Very tiny little spots separated by miles of nothing. There are few trees. It is possible to see the horizon in every direction. I pass through the small towns, which seem like oasises as I approach. Are they really there?
Page was there when I passed through, but the people weren’t. It was like a ghost town. It was Sunday and everything was closed. I talked to the man who ran the store, in front of his house. He gave me water and mentioned he had cyclists from Seattle staying with him.
Bicyclists from Seattle. That would become a familiar refrain in the coming weeks. Riding a bicycle from Seattle to the east coast is, apparently, an extremely popular idea. Everyday as I headed west, I passed countless cyclists on their way East. I passed a guy in Hope going from Seattle to Boston. I also met cyclists doing less conventional treks. In Cooperstown, I met a man in his 50’s riding a bicycle made in the 50’s from Minneapolis, where he now lives, to his hometown nearby, to celebrate its centennial. He, like me, had never done anything like this before. He had been riding his one-speed antique everyday, traveling over 100 miles a day. He woke up very early everyday and rode into the night.
I knew I would have to have a 100-mile day someday. I’m not an early riser, and by the time I get all my stuff packed to go, it is usually around noon, if not well past it. I’m definitely not racing, or going for any time records. Even as the approaching winter season threatens to bar me from the northernmost reaches of my planned destination, I still refuse to ride like a maniac to get there. Even so, I have been pushing myself continually, as I still have one eye on the calendar. Always prepared for a plan B, I am hurrying, but not demanding. 72 miles is as far as I go today. I make it to the town of Binsford.
On this, the last day of June, I am riding through Fort Totten, a Sioux Indian Reservation. There has been a lot of flooding. I stop in a tiny town called Tokio to get some stuff. A man tells me the road I was planning to take is completely underwater. The nice thing about North Dakota is the roads are on a grid, so it is easily to figure out how to go around obstacles. I detour my way around and finally make it to my stop in Minnewaukan. For another day, I don’t make 100 miles, but I do set my personal record of 84 miles.
The place I camp is free and has hot showers. It is also on a lake that, according to the map, isn’t supposed to be a lake.