T+89: The Good, the Bad, and the Odd in Minnesota

Mile 3010: Midland, MI

After leaving Sauk Centre, we continued on the Lakes to Marshes path until it intersected with the Lake Wobegon Path, which has two arms.  The first continues south until just outside Minneapolis/St. Paul.  The second turned north and went through farmland and crossed the upper reaches of the Mississippi.  We took the northern route.

All throughout North Dakota, we had become expert at spotting the water towers (or water balls, as I like to call them) of towns towards which we headed.   Seeing that water ball provided a boost of energy in the last three or four miles of biking before a break.  (air conditioning! cool drinks!)  In this part of Minnesota, we see church spires first.  The further south we go, the larger and more epic the Catholic churches become.  In many parts of our trip so far, Catholic churches were absent or tiny.   

Covered bridge on Lake Wobegon Trail

At Albany, we turn north and follow the Lake Wobegon trail through cute little villages surrounded by corn fields or marshes.  We start to notice that the marshes are dry and the corn looks parched.  It is hot, but the wind is at our back because we are going north, so we tool right along.  We are heading to the town of Little Falls, where we cross the Mississippi and then turn east again to cross the state.  About ten miles from Little Falls, we enter the hamlet of Bowlus.  It has a very sweet town park; Wes wants to stop in the shade and drink some water.  We start to pull into the picnic area when we look across the street and see Jordie’s Trailside Café: Coffee and Homemade Desserts

Everyone who knows Wes will recognize the he has spent nearly every day of his life for the past five years at Jordi’s Café con Leche in Detroit.  There is no way we are not going in this cute brick café.  Inside, we drink glass after glass ice tea with lime and visit with Sonya, the daughter of the owner, Jordie.  Sonya hauls out notebook after notebook of notes and records of long-distance bicyclists who have stopped by on this route.  They have a particular fondness for this type of traveler and have maintained relationships with several for many years.   Sonya, laughing, tells me I have to go see the men’s bathroom.  It is a completely over the top shrine to the Twins baseball team.  All the wall space is covered with player photos, pennants, schedules, and posters.  There must be at least a dozen stuffed animals in Twins uniforms.  

The whole place is very frilly, funky, and comfortable, with real tablecloths, real but unmatched dishes, and a stream of folks in and out to say hi.  Sonya asks where we are staying.  Before we can answer, she says, “Why don’t you stay here?  Lots of cyclists camp in the garden around back.  We’re having a pasta and pizza buffet tonight.  It’ll be fun.”   Wes and I look at each other.   We are pretty far from our mileage goal, but this place is pretty special and a night without a hotel cost would be good, soooo….

They show us to the garden.  It is magical.  They have created a water fall, with pools full of koi, surrounded by rocks and teaming with all sorts of flowers.  There are numerous little angels and cheerful signs.  Why the effect is not cloying, I can’t comprehend.  Instead, it is pretty, and peaceful, and welcoming.  I set up shop on a covered, rocking picnic table.  Wes grabs a newspaper, finds a nook, and settles into to one of his favorite pastimes. 

Two older bicyclists stop by to see if Jordie’s can cater their next big ride.  They are fascinated by our trip and equipment and we are fascinated by them and their bikes.  They are both well into their 70’s, seemingly a pair, although they strongly emphasize that they do not live in the same town.  They belong to a bike club whose youngest member is 55 and whose patriarch is 85.  “On the Tuesday rides, he’ll stay with the pack and make sure everyone is doing all right, but on the Friday rides, forget it!  Nobody can keep up with him.”   They are both small, slight people.  The woman is about my size.  They are riding Giant road bikes.  She offers to let me give her bike a try.  I step on her tiny clip pedals, press a few strokes, and cannot believe how far I have gone.  The pick-up and pull on this bike is astonishing.  It would be easy to maintain a pace of 15-20 miles an hour on this thing.   I am jealous.  Of course, there is no way this light and powerful bike could pull or carry a load.   But we surely could make better time if our average running speed was greater than 10 miles an hour.

All the food at Jordie’s is handmade, mostly by Sonya.  This includes the pizza dough and some of the pastas.  None of the food is very fancy or elaborate, but it is delicious and thoughtfully presented.  We choose to eat in a little alcove of the main dining room, where we can watch the steady stream of locals come in, get hugs, eat pizza and pasta, and gossip.  This is obviously a community center.  While in the alcove, we see a little shrine and read a framed and mounted newspaper article with the headline, “Jordie’s Trailside Café opens in a muted affair.”  The article tells that the brick building, now so cute and ruffly, had been a longtime railside bar, owned by Jordie and her fiancé Mike.  Drinking apparently got the best of Mike and he died from his alcoholism.  Jordie decided she would never serve anyone another drink of alcohol, closed the bar, and with the help of her daughter created the café which would be dedicated to hope and wholesomeness.  Now it is a haven of poetry, music, gardening, and homegrown food, with a constant throng of diners, visitors, and gardeners.

We have a nice sleep on the grass to the sound of the little waterfall.  We have a hard time dragging ourselves away the next morning, staying for breakfast and watching a several groups of construction workers come into this frilly place for their sausage, eggs and homemade bread.   We push off on the bike trail, headed up to the Mississippi River.   While riding, we visit with two middle-aged women on slow, heavy bikes, who like so many women when they hear of our long ride, exclaim, “Doesn’t your butt get sore?”  I tell them yes, it does and give them advice on managing the pain.   I think they are shocked at my strategies and realizing that discomfort is part of the package.

At the bridge, Wes stops to get his video camera to film this most momentous of river crossings.  He is effusively disgusted to find out that his GoPro camera has no charge even though it has not been used since the last charge.  This is a real irritant with this device.  I can see that these good farm women from Minnesota are very uncomfortable with this display of emotion.  They hurriedly make their goodbyes and rush off as fast as their slow, comfy bikes can take them.

Once again, the dear little Veer phone saves the day and we are able to film the river crossing.  On the other side of the river, we realize we have made a big mistake.  This trail ends on US Highway 10, a super busy divided highway, full of trucks and cars going full speed.  We have gone about six miles too far to the north and now have to travel on the shoulder, facing a stiff headwind, to get back on the right track.  It is really awful cycling.

We spot a road to the east and decide to bail.  We wander through back lanes and finally make our way back to where we should have been, having wasted 12 miles and a bunch of energy fighting the wind. 

Back on track, we head east, climbing and falling through a series of back roads where the crops are becoming increasing burnt.  There are whole fields of dead and dry soybeans; corn stalks with little, bent heads chatter in the hot, dry wind pouring in from the southeast.  We are in the farm lands of central Minnesota and seeing firsthand the effects of the severe drought in this region.  It is the first topic of conversation in every shop or bar.   There was too much rain in May and June; planting was delayed.  There has been no rain since late June.   Most farmers have no capacity to irrigate. All they can do is watch their crops thirst to death.

There are very few cafes in this part of the state.  Here and in Wisconsin, food is available in almosy exclusively in taverns.   We stop for lunch in a non-descript bar in Ramey, MN.  The customers are a group of farmers.  I hear one lament, “Last year, I was getting 360 bushels of corn to the acre.  This year, I will be lucky to get 60.” 

There is one young woman working.  She is the bartender, store clerk, and cook.  We ask about the special and she tells us it is chicken wild rice soup with a grilled cheese sandwich.  Sounds good.  Twenty minutes later she returns and we know for sure we are not at Jordie’s.   The soup is a gloppy combination of barely heated cream of chicken soup, Cheez whiz, and cold wild rice.  The sandwich is probably Kraft singles on margarine soaked Wonder bread.  It is a rare day when Wes can’t eat, but this is one of them.

 We fight our way down to the town of Milaca, where we have another odd experience.

The town has two choices for lodging.  One is a Motel 8 out on the highway.  The other is the Phoenix Hotel in town.  The Phoenix is a mixed used re-development of the former high school.  In addition to small retail, some condos, and a Pizza Hut, the high school is now a convention center and hotel with an almost hidden entrance.  The layout is peculiar, and our room is through a twisty turny hall on the second floor.  The hotel clerk tells us not to leave our bikes outside, they will surely be stolen and that there is plenty of space in our room.  We clonk our bikes and BOBs up the elevator into our odd room which has a giant bathroom foyer upon entering, then two beds with two televisions around the corner.  

We settle in for the evening and I tell Wes I would like a glass of wine while I work on my blogs.  Wine and beer are only sold in state liquor stores in Minnesota.  We are told the store is just six blocks up the street outside the hotel.  We set out walking, and the blocks and sidewalks soon disappear. Then there are no streetlights.  We walk on and on.  No store.  This feels more and more like a goose-chase.  We walk all the way out to the highway.  No liquor store.  We give up and buy ice tea at a Hardee’s and walk back, having never seen the store.  By the time we get back to our twisty-turny room, we’re done.

We hope for better day and a passage into Wisconsin the next day.  However, this is Minnesota and nothing goes quite as planned for us in this state …but that is a story for another post.

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posted from Midland, Michgan

T+70: We’ve Come this Far by Grace, Part 2

Mile 2180: MOORHEAD, MN

Note the bag on my handlebars

The amazing story continues….

Out the next day, we are really looking forward to leaving Montana and entering North Dakota.  We stop at the “Welcome to North Dakota Sign” and take pictures.  Leaving Montana feels like a victory.  It is such a big state, it is fully 1/7^th of our trip.  Passing motorcyclists stop, and offer to take pictures of us in front of the sign.  They tell us they are also going to Maine.  When we compare routes and suggest they go by way of Canada, they tell us they can’t go into Canada because they are carrying guns.  They must have seen the shock on our faces because they quickly add, “We are retired law enforcement, we always carry guns.”

We make it to the little town on Beach, ND, just over the border.  We have been riding on the freeway most of the day and make our way to the grain town about a mile and half away.  It has the inevitable grain elevator and railroad tracks, which we note are pretty rough.  We stop at a Mexican restaurant which is closing at 3pm on a Friday, because they can’t find any help. We will be there last customers of the day.

Wes wants to stay at the homegrown motel.  When we get there, there is a note to call a number for service.  The door to the office is wide open.  We call, and are told the manager won’t return until later that evening.  We should go look in Room 1 and if we like it, make ourselves at home.  Well, it is none too fancy, but has a pleasantly Ma and Pa Kettle vibe, so we decide to settle in.  A few hours later, Wes wants to go get a beer.  As I get ready to go, I cannot find my handlebar bag which has my purse, my phone, my little Veer phone, which I have been using as a camera.  We look high and low.  It is not in the room.

I must have left it at the restaurant.  Let’s go to the bar and see if they can help us locate the restaurant owners.  At the bar, they are very helpful.  We call the Cantina owners, who come open the building.  We look everywhere.  No bag.  Where could it be?   I go and get Wes from the Backyard Brewery.   I am really concerned now and want to completely retrace my steps.

On the way out of the bar, in the dark, we see a cyclist coming into town, pulling a BOB.  We note how late it is and how big a load he is carrying. 

Back at the room, we realize the last time we have memory of the bag is back at the Welcome to North Dakota Sign.  Even though it is pitch black, Wes decides he has to go look.  He enlists the aid of a fellow traveler named John, who takes him in his pickup truck up to the sign.  With flashlights, they look all around the sign to no avail.  At this bad news, I try using the search function on my Windows phone.  No luck.  It is time to face the inevitable.  The purse, credit cards, our current bike map, and worst of all, my phones with all contacts, trip journal, passwords, and photos is gone.   

I call to cancel all the cards and cannot sleep.  Wes is upset with me and can’t understand why I can’t sleep. All throughout the night and into the next morning, I am praying like crazy, especially to St. Anthony, the patron saint of all things lost.  (The child’s version of this I remember from my Catholic school days: “St. Anthony, St Anthony, please look around, my bag and phone must be found.  If God’s will and my good it shall be, then in your gratitude I’ll be bound.”

The next morning is mournful.  We retrace our steps one more time, fruitlessly.  I leave a message with the Sheriff, just in case anyone turns in the bag.  This is a big blow.   We push on, but definitely feel as though the air has gone out of the trip.

This becomes an actuality about 4 miles from Medora.  I cannot believe it, but I have another flat.  We pull off into the desert, fix the flat in the blazing sun, and resume our travels.  A mile down the road, the bike is flat again.  What the hell?  We pump it up.  This time, it won’t even take the air.  This is great.  We are 3 miles from Medora, my bike tire won’t even re-fill, I have lost my phone, photos, and wallet.  Are we having fun yet? 

We decide that Wes should cycle into Medora to get help. I should start walking my bike towards town.  I am gamely walking my wounded bike down the freeway.  There is a big section under construction and it is rough going.  I pick my way across shell of a bridge when I am joined by the heavily laden cyclist we saw the night before.  We talk about our travels, and I tell him of our string of bad luck.  He says, out of the blue, “Are you Shaun?  Are you traveling with Wes?  They found your bicycle bag.  It’s at the Backyard Brewery.  I was there last night when someone brought it in.”

This is great news, which I never would have received had not my bike tire flatted again.  His name is Wade and he is traveling from Portland to Portland.  He is carrying an epic load which weighs 200 pounds including his bike.  He has never heard of Adventure Cycling maps and has been making his way as he might.   After he cycles off, I muddle on toward town.  It is not long before Wes arrives, along with the savior Jennifer Morlock, again, to pick me up from the highway.   I tell them that the bag has been found and is at the Backyard Brewery.  Immediately Jennifer gets on the phone to her husband Loren at home, to see if he will go to the tavern and get my bag.  Even though it is out of his way by 20 miles, he readily agrees.  Back at Dakota Cyclery, Jennifer’s pregnant daughter and son-in-law go about restoring my bike while I go about tracking down the tale Wade has just told me.

There are two messages on Wes’ phone: one from Jackie Lindberg, the other from the Golden Valley Sheriff.  The first says she and her boyfriend found the bag, and to please call her.  The other says that the sheriff’s department now has the bag.  I immediately call both. 

Jackie tells me that her son and boyfriend spotted the bag near the railroad tracks as she was shopping in the grocery store in Beach.  Apparently, the bag bounced off my bike as we jounced over the rough tracks.  I still don’t know how I didn’t notice it.  My Windows phone is password protected, but my little Veer phone, is not.  She finds phone numbers and starts making calls.  One of them is to Wes’ cell phone, which he barely turns on. They look at the bike map and start following the route…all the way over to Medora and back!....looking for cyclists on the road.  They spot a bike at the Backyard Brewery and go in.  This is the bike of Wade, the cyclist we see coming into town, just after we have left the tavern.   They tell Wade if he sees us to let us know the bag has been found.  The next morning, they return to the bar and take the bag to the sheriff’s office.

We call the sheriff, but get an answering machine that says no one will be in the office until Monday.  It is Saturday. If we need immediate assistance, please call 911 or the state police network.  

All this is great news, but we have to pull Loren off from going to Beach and we have to find a way to get in touch with the Sheriff’s office.  While I try to round up the Sheriff, Wes goes back to Dakota Cyclery.  Too late.  Loren has already gone to Beach to no avail.  Drat! 

It is clear that this is going to take some time and that I am not leaving Medora without my bag.  We better get a room.  It is late on Saturday afternoon in a busy tourist town.  Most signs says “No Vacancy”.  We finally try the fanciest place in town, the Rough Riders Inn.  It is beautiful.  Our chances are slight.  While we are waiting, two dark haired women engage us.  “Would you like tickets to the Medora Musical and Pitchfork Fondue?....You can have them for free.  We bought six, but one of our group didn’t show up.”

I say, “We have had a string of bad luck, your kindness is a blessing, thank you so much.”  Their names are Terrie Romine and Ricki Woods, and they immediately take us to heart.  They give us hugs and hand us the tickets.  We are stunned by their generosity, but so befuddled at this point, we should have realized that a) we still didn’t have a place to stay b) a steak fondue is not the best choice for people who don’t eat red meat; and c) with all the losses we are facing, we may not be able to afford to buy second tickets.  But we don’t.  We just take the blessing as it comes, and somehow it turns the tide.

At the desk, Wes asks if there are rooms.  The desk clerk starts to tell us no, but is interrupted by a phone call.  She then announces, “I have just had a cancellation.  Do you want it?”  She names a pretty high price, but at this point, what else is the option?  The room is a little restored house, just around the corner.  When Wes and I open the door, we grab each other’s hands and practically leap for joy.  It is beautiful, full of real Mission furniture, actual paintings, hand-woven rugs.  The bathroom is huge and plush.  It is cool; there are real glass coffee cups and wine glasses.  How long has it been since we had such simple luxuries?

While I find a way to contact the Gold Valley Sheriff, Wes goes over to check on my bike repairs.  I call the State Police, who calls the dispatcher, who calls the sheriff, who calls the deputy, who calls me.  Just as Jackie Lindberg told me, I ask if he could deliver the bag to Medora.  Well, no, it is in a different county, but he guesses he could deliver it to the exit to Medora if we could meet him there.  He will call us when he leaves Beach in a little while.

While waiting for the call and Wes to come back, I read about the town and the park.  While it is true that Theodore Roosevelt had his life changed by his time hunting, traveling, and ranching in the Badlands of North Dakota, it is likely those few years would have been forgotten had not the North Dakota entrepreneur Harold Shafer (of Mr. Bubbles and Snowy Bleach fame) not thrown his effort and money into its restoration and promotion.  I compared it to the awful and inauthentic efforts in Winthrop, WA.

I get the call from the deputy, but Wes has not returned.  I wait and wonder what to do because he has the only key to our lodging and I still don’t have a bike.  It will take the deputy about 25 minutes to get from Beach.  At about 15 minutes out, I have to find Wes, whether or not I am locked out.    I go out the door, only to find Wes wheeling my newly restored bike to me.  I tell him of the deputy’s phone call.  He rushes back to get his bike and takes off, lickety-split.  I cannot keep up with him as he powers away on the bike trail.  Close to the highway exit, the bike trail veers away from the road.  I can no longer see Wes, and decide I better go to the highway to get the purse. 

I go up to the top of the exit the wrong way, (always a dodgy proposition).  There is no sign of Wes anywhere.  There is no sign of the deputy.  I wait, dutifully, for fifteen minutes, to no avail, then make my way back to town and hope I find Wes and can get back in the room.  I still don’t know if the bag has been recovered.   I knock on the door and Wes answers it with MY BAG! In hand.   He had zoomed up the bike path, and got to the bottom of the exit at the exact moment the deputy arrived.  The bag was handed over with the bag with the admonition, “Tell your wife she to keep better track of her things.”

I am over the moon.  I call Jackie to let her know the bag is back safe and sound and to thank her again for her kindness.  The little Veer phone, which I almost didn’t bring is now dubbed the “Dear Little Veer” because it saved the day.  We are in a celebratory mood.  We go and offer thanks for the incredible grace shown to us in this entire incident.  After these prayers in the oldest operating Catholic Church in North Dakota, we chance to have dinner with the lovely Hamburger family (a story for another day), then meet Terrie and Ricki at the amphitheatre on the top of the hill for the Medora Musical.

There is one last piece of grace to end this saga.  The theatre is up a high, steep hill with numerous switchbacks.  We ride our bikes part the way, then lock them to a stubbly little cottonwood before beginning the hard walk to the top.  Cars are groaning as they climb.  As we turn one switchback, a SUV stops.  Out pops Teddy Roosevelt, who offers us a ride to the show.  Actually it is Joe Wiegand, in full Teddy character and costume, on his way to promote his afternoon show to the teeming crowds on top.  When he finds out we are theatre people, he gives us his card and tells us where he would like to be booked in Michigan.

The view is incredible, the crowd is big, and show is silly.  But we are so relieved, so loved, so lucky.  A day before, our trip was nearly ruined.  Tonight, through the most improbable series of encounters and kindnesses, we are well fed, well housed, entertained, and restored.   Such grace, such grace.