The Muddle through Minnesota continues:
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| 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.
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.”
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.
……………..
Posted from Midland, MI
