T+84: The Ghost at Sauk Centre

Mile 2842: Ludington, MI

The Muddle through Minnesota continues:


Wes on the Lake and Marshes Trail



The next day we return to the Lake and Marshes trail, which is a 100 miles rails-to-trails conversion.  I realize that complaining about such a wonderful thing as a paved and marked bicycle trail is sheer ingratitude, but we find the mile after mile of flat grades next to cornfields rather boring.  We tell stories and play games to pass the time.  One such game: which letter of the alphabet begins the name of the most states?  It takes us quite a while to figure out that N and M are the dominant letters, each with 8 states.  (N: Nevada, New Mexico, Nebraska, North Dakota, New York, New Jersey, North Carolina, New Hampshire,  M: Montana, Minnesota, Michigan, Maine, Massachusetts, Maryland,  Missouri, Mississippi.  It gets worse.  The next tier is A’s, I’s, and W’s.) In our boredom, we have become characters in a Samuel Beckett novel, playing mind and number games to occupy the time.

Another thing that occupies our minds is trying to figure out where we will stay.  As the trip has transisted into more of an inn-to-inn ride, we spend our breaks peering at motel websites, trying to figure out where to stay.   Sometimes there is no choice (as in the only motel within miles), but often we do have a choice.  Often, we choose horribly.  In general, we choose the individual and local over a chain.  That, too, introduces a level of chance which sometimes works in our favor, sometimes not.

When we read the website for the Palmer House hotel, I was intrigued because it was a restored historic hotel.  As I dug through the website, it became clear that it was selling two other attractions.  The town of Sauk Centre is the hometown of Sinclair Lewis, and his Main Street is very much based on his experiences there.   The second is that the hotel is often featured as an active haunting site and was recently the focus of a television program.  Guests can pay extra money to conduct paranormal research in the hotel.   Every bit of that sounds more intriguing than a chain motel on the freeway, and it is just off our bike path, so that is where we will stay.

We stop by the house where Sinclair Lewis was raised.  It is a big two story Victorian, with a large wooden sign out front.  It says that Lewis was a sickly child that everybody teased and who was not as popular as his doctor father and adored elder brother.  It acknowledges that he received the Nobel Prize for literature.  It says that after his success with Main Street and Babbett,  his talent declined and he ended his life impoverished and alone in Italy.  I guess when you diss your hometown in Nobel prize winning literature, they don’t feel any obligation to respect you as they simultaneously promote you.

The hotel is a big brick edifice in a downtown struggling to stay viable.  The proprietor who effusively greets us looks like a barely reformed hippie, and she tells us we can store our bikes and gear in the alcove of the dining room, which is closed for the night.  They will be serving dinner in the bar.  There are about 20 rooms available, all the second floor.  We choose a slightly bigger one, then climb the steep stairs, walk down the expansive and antique-filled hall, and enter our oddly designed room.  While all the furnishings are nice, often antique, the layout is peculiar.  There are essentially three rooms: an L-shaped foyer and bathroom in front, and a small bedroom in back.

We go into the nearly empty bar.  It is well appointed, with wooden tables and big comfy couches.  The solid oak bar stretches thirty feet and is backed by an enormous mirror and elaborate set of cabinets.   It is dark and relaxing-- exactly inviting for the travelling salesmen for whom this establishment was designed. 

We are chatting with the bartender, when a slightly sketchy looking man comes and sits next to Wes.  He is burly, with long, formerly black hair pulled back into a messy ponytail.  The conversation begins with the usual pleasantries, as strangers find out about each other.  e isHe

 He is originally from Michigan, but left long ago to join the army, and has been living in Sauk Centre for many years.  We ask about his army service.  He tells us he first did heavy artillery maintenance during Desert Shield in the 1990’s.  I ask if he retired from the army, and he launches into the following story. 

After serving in Kuwait, he was sent back to Fort LaJeune, where he became a sergeant grade 7 in the heavy equipment maintenance division.  When he was in Kuwait, he only served with men who served or serviced the front line, but stateside, he had to serve with a platoon of females.  (He peers intently at Wes while saying this, looking for a specific response which does not come.)   He tells how he got hauled up in front of the commander for talking about their asses.  “All I said was that they needed to get up off their asses and get to work!”  The commander sympathized and told him he needed to better communicate with and understand the people he was supervising.  He decided they needed to practice a bivouac, so gets the group of about 20 women to go set up a full camp on a football field about 3 miles from their barracks.  After a full week of work, they were supposed to camp for the weekend on the field. (He didn't mention what they were doing for bathrooms and showers.) 

Apparently the bivouac goes badly.  One of the women, Shaniqua, he emphasizes while again peering oddly at Wes, has tampon problems and leaves the bivouac to go back to her place for a shower.  This apparently starts a trend.  Soon, the whole group of women leave and return to barracks.  He says, “If it had been men, we’d a gone out in the woods, and they never would a left.” 

I try to point out that camping on a football field in town would seem ridiculous to many women.  That is not the response he wants.  He repeats, again, how Shaniqua caused the big problem.  He leans into Wes, looking for sympathy, looking for agreement.  Wes doesn’t play.  He stares at us with big eyes, pushes his unfinished drink away, and stalks out the door. 

When he leaves, the bartender says.  “He’s really a nice guy…and one of the best cooks in town. He comes in here most every night.” 

We return to our room shortly thereafterward and have a nice sleep.  The next morning, after sheepishly retrieving our bikes from the now open dining room, we set off.  We may not have seen a ghost at the Palmer Hotel, but we surely encountered a spirit from the past.

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Posted from Midland, MI