Showing posts with label October 2008. Show all posts
Showing posts with label October 2008. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
October 23: Portage key
I have been feasting on my can goods to try to make the portages lighter, since I am sure to hit a town at least once a week, and assuming I can resolve my banking situation I can buy a week's worth of food in each. What I do is grab cans from the bottom of the bag: stuff I don't like as much or has lost its label. Cook up a couple cans and if by the third I haven't hit my regimen of carbs and protein, make some mac and cheese, adding tuna if necessary.
Today's marked portage was at the end of Cass Lake, a recreational lake, and its Knutson's Dam a recreational dam. It turned out to be open and safe to shoot, saving me a 300 yard portage! This inspired a code for my portage page, OOO, for Open, 0 foot drop, and 0 issues.
What's a portage page? There are a lot of portages and to keep my spirits up I made a list of them in the back of my notebook, writing little codes next to each one; the final key becoming as follows:
Today's marked portage was at the end of Cass Lake, a recreational lake, and its Knutson's Dam a recreational dam. It turned out to be open and safe to shoot, saving me a 300 yard portage! This inspired a code for my portage page, OOO, for Open, 0 foot drop, and 0 issues.
What's a portage page? There are a lot of portages and to keep my spirits up I made a list of them in the back of my notebook, writing little codes next to each one; the final key becoming as follows:
- xT: x number of Trips
- xE: x number of Eggs
- xP: x number of People seen
- SG: Slid canoe on Grass
- DF: saw a Dead Fish
- OOO: Open 0 foot drop 0 issues
- S: Scouted ahead
- BP: lifted boat with Bungeed Paddles
- FLH: Felt Like Hell
- FC: Found Crack
- GP: Gouged Pavement?
- RR: Rest Room
- RN: ReNamed?
- xH: x # people Helped
Day 124 ended: a little spot of sand half covered in snail shells on the shore of Winnibigoshish, a mile north of the river.
I am betting strongly on no significant rain or wind tonight. All my stuff is close together very close to the shore, with the intent that I can get going very early in the morning. I hope this bet pays off.
October 22, Part 2: Staying dry
I don't know how other people do it, so I must invent as I go, Although it essentially rained all [the previous] day, spirits remained high until my hands and feet began feeling hopelessly cold and wet. The rest of my body was thankfully covered in Gore-Tex. It's a mystery that I can walk in the water in the Gore-Tex boots I had and my feet did not get wet, but a day of rain leaves them soaking.
My hands, though, felt warmer at the end of the day than at any time during it -- looking ancient, shriveled, wrinkled. It will be a while before I have a chance, but I simply must find a pair of gloves that will work decently, and then probably a couple extra pairs of socks. I currently have 5 pairs of socks, and wore 3 during the rainy day, leave only a couple of pairs for later.
I use a tent for the night, since it appears the rest of the campsites lack the 3-wall shelters. I hang my flashlight from the top of the tent by a string, and tonight several socks and gloves are tied up in it in hopes that swaying above me all night will help them dry faster. With every reason to expect continuing rain, if I remain stationary for even a day at this point freezing is the more urgent concern. I suppose other canoeists suffer the cold and wet much like I do.
The good news? I discovered my hair had grown long enough to lay flat in my Tilley hat the Kings gave me, which fit well again throughout the long rainy day.
Day 123 ended: Star Island campsite (by the lake inside the island inside the lake)
My hands, though, felt warmer at the end of the day than at any time during it -- looking ancient, shriveled, wrinkled. It will be a while before I have a chance, but I simply must find a pair of gloves that will work decently, and then probably a couple extra pairs of socks. I currently have 5 pairs of socks, and wore 3 during the rainy day, leave only a couple of pairs for later.
I use a tent for the night, since it appears the rest of the campsites lack the 3-wall shelters. I hang my flashlight from the top of the tent by a string, and tonight several socks and gloves are tied up in it in hopes that swaying above me all night will help them dry faster. With every reason to expect continuing rain, if I remain stationary for even a day at this point freezing is the more urgent concern. I suppose other canoeists suffer the cold and wet much like I do.
The good news? I discovered my hair had grown long enough to lay flat in my Tilley hat the Kings gave me, which fit well again throughout the long rainy day.
Day 123 ended: Star Island campsite (by the lake inside the island inside the lake)
Monday, April 22, 2013
October 22, Part 1: Wolf Lake
Before me stretched the shoreline. I searched carefully for the outlet of the river, but I was having difficulty, even when consulting the map. A forest stretched from the left to straight ahead, finally broken by docks and houses which continued to the right. A third of the way from the right side of that subdivision was a white house that had caught my eye as I approached. A road extended to the right of this, even beyond where the houses ended, and I had seen a car driving on this road vanish in the vicinity of the white house.
Somewhere ahead had to be the river. Here's a one-question quiz to see if you've understood everything I've written so far about navigation. Where did I need to go? Where was the river?
a) Left of the houses
b) Near the white house
c) Right of the houses
The answer is after the break.
Somewhere ahead had to be the river. Here's a one-question quiz to see if you've understood everything I've written so far about navigation. Where did I need to go? Where was the river?
a) Left of the houses
b) Near the white house
c) Right of the houses
The answer is after the break.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
October 20, Part 2: I am a spaceship
I am a spaceship hovering over some alien planet. Below me is a foreign geography composed of black forested continents stretched in light sandy oceans. The atmosphere of this place is seen to have an intricate web-like pattern of light and dark clouds, illuminated by the constant showers of meteors which falling into the planet's air, join it, leaving only ripples on the surface. Occasionally some black mass of life rises up off the sea and floats, speeding across below me -- a true flying island.
Black holes and nebulae burst out like living boils thrust upward from undersea currents, and in the deep space of exploding stars, cosmic spiders scour the surface for unlucky prey, as the naked boughs of trees drape over my head. I am a canoe, and the water is dark, large, and living.
Day 121 ended: ???
Black holes and nebulae burst out like living boils thrust upward from undersea currents, and in the deep space of exploding stars, cosmic spiders scour the surface for unlucky prey, as the naked boughs of trees drape over my head. I am a canoe, and the water is dark, large, and living.
Day 121 ended: ???
Saturday, April 20, 2013
October 21: Stump Lake
Is it any wonder why they called it Stump Lake? Not really. A hundred beavers the size of bears had once roamed the place, taking down the biggest trees first and schewing the sides, face-up, flat as a board. If someone were to come in and rotate these board 180 degrees, they'd chew the other side too, then you could ship these to a hardware store and sell them.
I wandered through the wreckage forever looking for the "Stump Lake" camp site that showed up on the map somewhere around the bend. I decided I was intelligent, but just not intelligent enough to solve the riddle of the lake -- until a couple bends later I finally found it just before the sun set, and froze my fingers writing about the experience so you could read it.
The thing is, the real beaver story comes later.
Day 122 ended: Stump Lake Campground
I wandered through the wreckage forever looking for the "Stump Lake" camp site that showed up on the map somewhere around the bend. I decided I was intelligent, but just not intelligent enough to solve the riddle of the lake -- until a couple bends later I finally found it just before the sun set, and froze my fingers writing about the experience so you could read it.
The thing is, the real beaver story comes later.
Day 122 ended: Stump Lake Campground
Friday, April 19, 2013
October 20, Part 1: The grocery portage
Plastic bags just love to loose my food all over the ground. I want to carry less food, not more. More towns, more portages, less need to carry three weeks worth. I'm not sure I can afford it, anyway. Pick up a tin, put it in a different bag - bit more than shreds of plastic. Hold my new fuel can in one hand, a barrel of oats under the arm. When the first bag ripped, it was easy enough to redistribute to the other three. When the second one fell apart -- obviously I was having difficulty but no one was going to just pull over and help. With the last hundred yards to go on my mile trek back from the grocery store, under the unthinking gaze of Paul Bunyan and Babe I dumped it all on the shore and walked to the canoe.
I came back in the boat to pick up my things, when a woman came running out of her car.
"Excuse me, do you need a plastic bag?"
"Oh, thanks!"
"I tried giving it to you earlier, but..."
-- but I knew no one was going to help.
Day 121 continues.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
October 19, Part 3: Drinking and shooting #2
After I'd been there a while a hunter and his girlfriend dropped by the campsite, dressed in camo and day-glo orange -- a combination I have yet to understand. The boy had a rifle, and he said he was hunting for grouse.
I told him about the litterbug I'd seen when he mentioned that he often stopped by this site to cut wood and clean up trash. Around when I said "the good people in the world outnumber the bad," he finally put his gun down, laying it against the shelter. They talked with me for a couple more minutes and then left, the girlfriend smiling at me.
It wasn't until later I realized I may have interrupted something a bit more serious than grouse hunting.
Day 120 ended: Fox Trap campsite.
I told him about the litterbug I'd seen when he mentioned that he often stopped by this site to cut wood and clean up trash. Around when I said "the good people in the world outnumber the bad," he finally put his gun down, laying it against the shelter. They talked with me for a couple more minutes and then left, the girlfriend smiling at me.
It wasn't until later I realized I may have interrupted something a bit more serious than grouse hunting.
Day 120 ended: Fox Trap campsite.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
October 19, Part 2: Mazes
When I was young and the grass was tall, my dad used to mow mazes in it for us kids to run around in. The grass was never so tall that I couldn't see ahead of me; in fact, the hardest was when it was short already, and the height difference was too subtle to see much further than my feet.
The marshes of this early Mississippi are like a giant grass maze -- except here the consequences for making the wrong decision are greater than in my old back yard. The river is black and the walls are silver-gold, to high to see far at any fork.
As long as I follow the current I should eventually find my way down the face of America. But even a weak wind obscures this, and I must rely on other clues. If I can see plants beneath me, these usually point in the direction of the seepage, being unaffected by the air above me. Since the water is low, some plants that normally would be submerged stick up just above the surface and testify to their history.
Such strong clues are rare. Often I try to watch tiny seeds and bubbles on the edge of the channel to see which way they float. They are stuck to the water and even in an opposing wind stubbornly drift against the waves. I have to be careful, though, because if these marks lay in some subtle eddy they lend the wrong impression -- and if I get too close, I affect the flow.
The windborn waves have subtle differences depending on whether they flow with or against the water. When these forces are in sync, the surface flows smooth, but pit them against each other and it grows rougher. This can best be seen at the corner of a sharp meander where you can look out and see both effects at once.
I even try to observe the tiny V-shaped ripples that form around a blade of grass; the wind stretches these into lazy U's or obscures them altogether.
Despite all the clues in my detective kit, the channels in the marsh are not well-defined and offer many decisions. I do not always make the right one. At one point I was sure of having made the wrong one: the same log, the same dead trees -- and yet a little later I found myself bursting out into another marsh where the mallards had hidden, flushing one and two and ten at a time until over a hundred raced away, flying to (and yelling about) places I could not follow.
Day 120 continues.
The marshes of this early Mississippi are like a giant grass maze -- except here the consequences for making the wrong decision are greater than in my old back yard. The river is black and the walls are silver-gold, to high to see far at any fork.
As long as I follow the current I should eventually find my way down the face of America. But even a weak wind obscures this, and I must rely on other clues. If I can see plants beneath me, these usually point in the direction of the seepage, being unaffected by the air above me. Since the water is low, some plants that normally would be submerged stick up just above the surface and testify to their history.
Such strong clues are rare. Often I try to watch tiny seeds and bubbles on the edge of the channel to see which way they float. They are stuck to the water and even in an opposing wind stubbornly drift against the waves. I have to be careful, though, because if these marks lay in some subtle eddy they lend the wrong impression -- and if I get too close, I affect the flow.
The windborn waves have subtle differences depending on whether they flow with or against the water. When these forces are in sync, the surface flows smooth, but pit them against each other and it grows rougher. This can best be seen at the corner of a sharp meander where you can look out and see both effects at once.
I even try to observe the tiny V-shaped ripples that form around a blade of grass; the wind stretches these into lazy U's or obscures them altogether.
Despite all the clues in my detective kit, the channels in the marsh are not well-defined and offer many decisions. I do not always make the right one. At one point I was sure of having made the wrong one: the same log, the same dead trees -- and yet a little later I found myself bursting out into another marsh where the mallards had hidden, flushing one and two and ten at a time until over a hundred raced away, flying to (and yelling about) places I could not follow.
Day 120 continues.
October 19, Part 1: Drinking and shooting #1
I floated lazily past a site covered in beer cans, deep in remorse over the loss of my wheels. Around the bend I realized that although I had little choice but to go on, I could atone for the environmental impact by cleaning up garbage on the way. It was already too late for the beer cans I had seen, but not too much further I saw a can of Mountain Dew in the river, so I scooped it up with my paddle and dumped it in the canoe.
Further on I heard motors, and thought there must be 4-wheelers in the woods nearby. Nope. Three camouflaged boats were stopped, pulled up in the grasses as their motors scared the birds away and a man threw beer cans in the grass while two boys, bones lost in flesh, looked on.
"Hey!" I shouted, and the man, face all pinched in under the bill of his cap muttered something in a manly mumble. He had already undone my good deed for the day, but I didn't have much hope of changing the mind of a man who'd been drinking and hunting and paddled on.
A small flock of Tundra Swan, five, were in the air, and other birds were in the water. It was strange, it had been awhile since I'd seen any Canada geese, but there was a lonely one sitting there in the water, right by a mallard drake in breeding plumage, and a female as well, and more birds all around me. There was something very odd about these birds. They were grouped oddly. And they weren't moving. I was surrounded by a flock of 20 waterfowl, placed randomly by someone with an eye for variety but not the natural behavior of birds. I escaped before I was mistaken for a live one -- an all too likely possibility, given the hunters I'd seen along the river so far.
I picked more cans out of the water until I made up for the drunk hunter's waste, though not yet mine. When I got to the camp site there was a bird there -- it didn't move, although it was real; it was dead and its retinas were peeling from its bloody face. I scooped it up with my paddle and dumped it in the water.
Day 120 continues.
Further on I heard motors, and thought there must be 4-wheelers in the woods nearby. Nope. Three camouflaged boats were stopped, pulled up in the grasses as their motors scared the birds away and a man threw beer cans in the grass while two boys, bones lost in flesh, looked on.
"Hey!" I shouted, and the man, face all pinched in under the bill of his cap muttered something in a manly mumble. He had already undone my good deed for the day, but I didn't have much hope of changing the mind of a man who'd been drinking and hunting and paddled on.
A small flock of Tundra Swan, five, were in the air, and other birds were in the water. It was strange, it had been awhile since I'd seen any Canada geese, but there was a lonely one sitting there in the water, right by a mallard drake in breeding plumage, and a female as well, and more birds all around me. There was something very odd about these birds. They were grouped oddly. And they weren't moving. I was surrounded by a flock of 20 waterfowl, placed randomly by someone with an eye for variety but not the natural behavior of birds. I escaped before I was mistaken for a live one -- an all too likely possibility, given the hunters I'd seen along the river so far.
I picked more cans out of the water until I made up for the drunk hunter's waste, though not yet mine. When I got to the camp site there was a bird there -- it didn't move, although it was real; it was dead and its retinas were peeling from its bloody face. I scooped it up with my paddle and dumped it in the water.
Day 120 continues.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
October 18: Amusement and despair
The early Mississippi is an amusement park ride. I began the day by packing my things and saying goodbye to the people who had gathered at the hostel -- despite shyness that came with the impact of human contact and minor celebrity that came from the bicycle portage.
I rolled the canoe down the hill from the hostel, trying to maintain control by pulling from behind, first from the left, and then from the right as the boat scurried to the lake. I put it in the water. The wind was blowing northward, quite dangerously to my land-lubbin' eyes. The dock was supported by steep pipes of varying heights which whistled as the waves crested.
I made a quick call to my parents to tell them I was going, but the connection was cut short and after a minute of un-answered "hello"s I hung up and got in the canoe, for the first time in ten days.
My canoe reached the artificial line of rocks which marks the official beginning of the Mississippi River. Immediately, I asked those gathered at the point to help me portage around the ceremonial rocks, as well as the log that had been added later on to allow anyone to easily cross the river here. About seven men immediately grab the bow and we struggle forward a couple yards before I drop it, saying, "Could we have maybe one or two people back here with me?"
The source of the Mississippi was carved by man to give a more "noble" appearance to the headwaters of the great American river. So I think of it here as some awesome theme park ride. First you wind around a bit, and quickly come to a low bridge, its lower edge covered in gum placed for luck by previous adventurers. You must duck this. Then come a series of wooden footbridges, filled with admirers and questioners trying to get their words in before you float around the next bend. Next comes the culvert which runs under the main park drive. It is a tunnel carved through the road, just tall enough for your head, and just wide enough for your canoe, which chutes through with the water rushing and your heart rushing as well.
This chute ejects you back into the manufactured wilderness for a time before the channel enters into the marsh which is the true face of the upper Mississippi. Here you can get lost in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike in the autumn grasses as you flush mallards and the beautiful white snow geese.
The marshes are broken briefly by a tiny "dam" built by loggers one hundred years ago. Now, it does not appear to be anything but a rather bad rapid, heavy in logs and rocks. It must be portaged, and unlike most Canadian portages I did, my wheels were useless here due to the slope and growth around the path. I carried over everything except the canoe, which I dragged.
Then there is a series of rapids which would not be so bad except it is continuous for 4 miles, during which there is barely time to think with all the weaving through current and dodging limbs straining the water. I was wondering how long this would last, and turned around for my pack which held my map. Something was very wrong. On top of this pack had been my portage wheel; on top of that my expensive new jacket, just purchased in Winnipeg. I had taken it off when the weather got warm, and just laid it there behind me. The wheels were gone, nabbed by some grasping tree as I weaved the waters, and with the wheels, my jacket.
I could not see them behind me.
There was a portage trail around a bridge that is probably low in very high water. Here I docked my canoe and hoped to go back and recover my loss. But there was simply nowhere to walk on the banks of the early Mississippi.
I returned to the canoe and, heart heavy, continued on through the five miles of marsh that lay before my campsite. There was a notch in the bank where many canoes had been pulled up before, up to a mowed lawn with a fire pit, a three-walled shelter, and a latrine. A footbridge crossed the river to another maintained campsite, with a pit and water pump.
I felt sick to my stomach about the loss, the unintentional pollution and the thought of making the 200-300 yard portages further down the Mississippi without any wheels. I was by no means as carefree as when the hitch broke: but I recognized I could not go back for them. I couldn't walk the non-existent banks, and couldn't wade or swim up 4 miles of rapids in October.
The sun set by the time I ate my meal, cooked on the pre-gathered firewood. What should have been a day of exhilaration and triumph felt sad and uncomfortable.
Day 119 ended: Coffee Pot Landing
I rolled the canoe down the hill from the hostel, trying to maintain control by pulling from behind, first from the left, and then from the right as the boat scurried to the lake. I put it in the water. The wind was blowing northward, quite dangerously to my land-lubbin' eyes. The dock was supported by steep pipes of varying heights which whistled as the waves crested.
I made a quick call to my parents to tell them I was going, but the connection was cut short and after a minute of un-answered "hello"s I hung up and got in the canoe, for the first time in ten days.
My canoe reached the artificial line of rocks which marks the official beginning of the Mississippi River. Immediately, I asked those gathered at the point to help me portage around the ceremonial rocks, as well as the log that had been added later on to allow anyone to easily cross the river here. About seven men immediately grab the bow and we struggle forward a couple yards before I drop it, saying, "Could we have maybe one or two people back here with me?"
The source of the Mississippi was carved by man to give a more "noble" appearance to the headwaters of the great American river. So I think of it here as some awesome theme park ride. First you wind around a bit, and quickly come to a low bridge, its lower edge covered in gum placed for luck by previous adventurers. You must duck this. Then come a series of wooden footbridges, filled with admirers and questioners trying to get their words in before you float around the next bend. Next comes the culvert which runs under the main park drive. It is a tunnel carved through the road, just tall enough for your head, and just wide enough for your canoe, which chutes through with the water rushing and your heart rushing as well.
This chute ejects you back into the manufactured wilderness for a time before the channel enters into the marsh which is the true face of the upper Mississippi. Here you can get lost in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike in the autumn grasses as you flush mallards and the beautiful white snow geese.
The marshes are broken briefly by a tiny "dam" built by loggers one hundred years ago. Now, it does not appear to be anything but a rather bad rapid, heavy in logs and rocks. It must be portaged, and unlike most Canadian portages I did, my wheels were useless here due to the slope and growth around the path. I carried over everything except the canoe, which I dragged.
Then there is a series of rapids which would not be so bad except it is continuous for 4 miles, during which there is barely time to think with all the weaving through current and dodging limbs straining the water. I was wondering how long this would last, and turned around for my pack which held my map. Something was very wrong. On top of this pack had been my portage wheel; on top of that my expensive new jacket, just purchased in Winnipeg. I had taken it off when the weather got warm, and just laid it there behind me. The wheels were gone, nabbed by some grasping tree as I weaved the waters, and with the wheels, my jacket.
I could not see them behind me.
There was a portage trail around a bridge that is probably low in very high water. Here I docked my canoe and hoped to go back and recover my loss. But there was simply nowhere to walk on the banks of the early Mississippi.
I returned to the canoe and, heart heavy, continued on through the five miles of marsh that lay before my campsite. There was a notch in the bank where many canoes had been pulled up before, up to a mowed lawn with a fire pit, a three-walled shelter, and a latrine. A footbridge crossed the river to another maintained campsite, with a pit and water pump.
I felt sick to my stomach about the loss, the unintentional pollution and the thought of making the 200-300 yard portages further down the Mississippi without any wheels. I was by no means as carefree as when the hitch broke: but I recognized I could not go back for them. I couldn't walk the non-existent banks, and couldn't wade or swim up 4 miles of rapids in October.
The sun set by the time I ate my meal, cooked on the pre-gathered firewood. What should have been a day of exhilaration and triumph felt sad and uncomfortable.
Day 119 ended: Coffee Pot Landing
Monday, April 15, 2013
October 17: Victory lap and roll call
There was so much to do at Lake Itasca that I had to stay for a full day. Plus it was good to have a kind of "rest" day. How to do that but still spend it biking and hiking around the lake?
I unhitched the boat from the Brompton, snapping off all the bungee cords and cutting out the duct tape and rubber that had been the cushion between them. The bike was so fast, so small, and spritelike without a canoe to tow that it was a long time before I left top gear. It was exciting how nimble the thing was around turns.
Itasca State Park is like a national park in disguise, considering the quality of its trails and boardwalks, its centers for interpretation and commerce surprisingly well staffed and stocked for the late season. It was a relief to me, the large quantity of field guides and free maps of the upper Mississippi at the gift shops. And compared to many of the provincial parks I have been to, not many recreational vehicles. The gift shop is state owned and the activities here more culturally similar to what I am used to, I suppose.
I bounded up and down the hills, taking a complete lap around the lake, as I saw the largest white pine, and what was left of the largest red: real record-holders. I walked down to a lake slowly silting into a meadow, and hiked the Dr Roberts trail, 2 miles through a bog with a certain Beatles song stuck in my head.
The bicycle portage was the most difficult thing I had done (until the upper Mississippi) and it was as hard on my equipment as it had been on me. The following parts gave their lives in the effort:
8 spokes, 1 axle and bearing set, 1 tire, 6 patches, 1 paddle, 1 inner tube (rubber for cushioning), 1/2 roll of duct tape, and that license plate got beat up pretty good too.
Day 118 ended: Mississippi Headwaters Hostel
I unhitched the boat from the Brompton, snapping off all the bungee cords and cutting out the duct tape and rubber that had been the cushion between them. The bike was so fast, so small, and spritelike without a canoe to tow that it was a long time before I left top gear. It was exciting how nimble the thing was around turns.
Itasca State Park is like a national park in disguise, considering the quality of its trails and boardwalks, its centers for interpretation and commerce surprisingly well staffed and stocked for the late season. It was a relief to me, the large quantity of field guides and free maps of the upper Mississippi at the gift shops. And compared to many of the provincial parks I have been to, not many recreational vehicles. The gift shop is state owned and the activities here more culturally similar to what I am used to, I suppose.
I bounded up and down the hills, taking a complete lap around the lake, as I saw the largest white pine, and what was left of the largest red: real record-holders. I walked down to a lake slowly silting into a meadow, and hiked the Dr Roberts trail, 2 miles through a bog with a certain Beatles song stuck in my head.
The bicycle portage was the most difficult thing I had done (until the upper Mississippi) and it was as hard on my equipment as it had been on me. The following parts gave their lives in the effort:
8 spokes, 1 axle and bearing set, 1 tire, 6 patches, 1 paddle, 1 inner tube (rubber for cushioning), 1/2 roll of duct tape, and that license plate got beat up pretty good too.
Day 118 ended: Mississippi Headwaters Hostel
Sunday, April 14, 2013
October 16: Jeremy Davies
Some regions seem to breed people who are into every little thing, who have not just their finger on the pulse of the community, but compose one or two chambers of the heart, seemingly with no realization that's what they're doing. I mean, more likely the reverse is true, that the people breed regions where things can happen. Some say that's what Melissa was to the church we went to, and so it gradually dissolved after she left.
I can't know for sure if Jeremy Davies plays the same role for the area around Bagley, but I suspect the answer is "Yes," and if it wasn't for the natural scenic beauty of the place everyone will just move out, shutter their homes and cabins when he goes. He actually spends most of his time running camps for prisoners, and perhaps children, and also driving around checking on canoeists.
First encounter: he was driving around in a van filled with kids, stopped by just to see what I was up to. He told me to stay on the Yogi Lee Trail that night and stopped by with his father Keith later. He actually gave me this ground cloth he dreamed up while he was in Iraq so he didn't have to share a tent with any officers. This ground cloth was made of some heavy material that wrapped around your sleeping bag, for some warmth but also to replace the floor of a tent. Your roof would then just be a rain poncho with cinched hood and staked down corners. Make a tent like that and you wouldn't have to worry about officers taking it from you.
He showed up again the next morning to exchange contact information. Who knows, maybe he just thought I was up to no good. But he set up an exchange for the bent-shaft paddle I broke while using it as a lever for my canoe on the road. Not too bright, that. So later on I waited at this park until he drove up in a blue Beatle he was driving across the state for a friend, and got me an aluminum paddle.
That was the last I saw of him, but at the end of the day, just a mile or two out from Itasca, I heard a loud "shpuh! Shhhp," coming from the right-side of my canoe trailer, as the last of my patches gave out. Knowing that motorists never stop to help cyclists, I was shocked beyond belief when the next car pulled over on the side of the road, and out came... Jeremy's parents, Keith and Judith.
They drove me to their place, they fixed up my wheel with their big air compressor, they gave me strawberry yogurt. Judith, mute from ALS, wrote on her whiteboard in red marker that I should really stay at the hostel at the state park. I had hardly any cash, and no working debit or credit cards, but I found out I did have some checks linked to a checking account with a bit over $100 in it.
Day 117 ended: Mississippi Headwaters Hostel
I can't know for sure if Jeremy Davies plays the same role for the area around Bagley, but I suspect the answer is "Yes," and if it wasn't for the natural scenic beauty of the place everyone will just move out, shutter their homes and cabins when he goes. He actually spends most of his time running camps for prisoners, and perhaps children, and also driving around checking on canoeists.
First encounter: he was driving around in a van filled with kids, stopped by just to see what I was up to. He told me to stay on the Yogi Lee Trail that night and stopped by with his father Keith later. He actually gave me this ground cloth he dreamed up while he was in Iraq so he didn't have to share a tent with any officers. This ground cloth was made of some heavy material that wrapped around your sleeping bag, for some warmth but also to replace the floor of a tent. Your roof would then just be a rain poncho with cinched hood and staked down corners. Make a tent like that and you wouldn't have to worry about officers taking it from you.
He showed up again the next morning to exchange contact information. Who knows, maybe he just thought I was up to no good. But he set up an exchange for the bent-shaft paddle I broke while using it as a lever for my canoe on the road. Not too bright, that. So later on I waited at this park until he drove up in a blue Beatle he was driving across the state for a friend, and got me an aluminum paddle.
That was the last I saw of him, but at the end of the day, just a mile or two out from Itasca, I heard a loud "shpuh! Shhhp," coming from the right-side of my canoe trailer, as the last of my patches gave out. Knowing that motorists never stop to help cyclists, I was shocked beyond belief when the next car pulled over on the side of the road, and out came... Jeremy's parents, Keith and Judith.
They drove me to their place, they fixed up my wheel with their big air compressor, they gave me strawberry yogurt. Judith, mute from ALS, wrote on her whiteboard in red marker that I should really stay at the hostel at the state park. I had hardly any cash, and no working debit or credit cards, but I found out I did have some checks linked to a checking account with a bit over $100 in it.
Day 117 ended: Mississippi Headwaters Hostel
Saturday, April 13, 2013
October 15: Your special place, the mind
I am riding my bike and I am riding it and I am going places. And going and going and getting places, not getting places, and one place that I have not gotten to yet is a place special to you. You may be surprised when I say where this special place is, because it may not be special to you yet, but it should be. That special place is -- wait, let's not get there yet, this is personal. This blog is all about you so let's take our time. Your time.
You can probably guess what I'm not going to say -- I mean, not with any high probability or anything, but there is some probability. I'm not going to go on and on about how beautiful and/or handsome you are, although we all suspect this is a subject that remains of interest to you, and may continue to do so as long as we agree this is a socially acceptable topic and not yet too awkward. Nor will we discuss your cleverness, stick-to-it-ive-ness, and your popular attitude and demeanor.
No! The subject of you is the mind, where we live today. I am standing in your mind, hand in grotesquely exaggerated hand of your cortical homunculus, staring around in awe at the thoughts that are conveyed from place to place on those imaginary belts as waves of neurotransmitters vibrate strangely on their quest of cats. You have many interesting thoughts. I reach out and take one, and your homunculus checks it out on the tip of its distended tongue. Your first thought: Is this entry going to continue like this? Because this is really weird. But... imagine if the author really did get the canoe trailer rolling, and managed to bike a long ways, like 50 miles...
Why, I am flattered. For the next thought in your wonderful imagination, instead of all the things that are normally there like bus schedules and little people and the boiling point of mercury -- you are imagining me there! "I am shocked," I say, "Shocked. I put this entire blog together to talk about you in particular, and how wonderful you are and special and so on and yada yada yada." The homunculus nods its massive head. "-- but it turns out your special thoughts are just going to be about my canoe trip? Well, then..." I sigh and sit down. I suppose it's time to talk about myself for another 40 pages. Why don't you sit there and imagine with all those special thoughts of yours...
I am riding and I am riding 50 miles today because everything is hunky dory and the wind is in the right direction and even the bike trailer which I made and was specially cursed ahead of time by the angels at creation is actually working. I did not want to stop for anything, not fame or glory, or 30 pounds of potatoes for only $10 or a restroom break or spare inner tubes (oops) or even a banana. I mean, the wind was with me, and I wasn't trying to be rude to the reporter who waved me down but that's kind of a big deal. So I chewed up the last of the amazing haul of apples the Rothkes gave me while answering him with annoyance as he jotted words down in his notebook: [SAFF. CALGARY. ST LOUIS. YOUNG. HEALTHY. SINGLE.] Every tickle of the air as I stood there still was a lost moment of motion --
No, those words of the reporter were not his assessment of me but my assessment of myself, the reasons I gave for the trip. They were as good as any I could give at the time. Five years later, writing this, I still don't know what it was about, but I know it was good, and it's over, and I sometimes sorta want it again, but it wouldn't be the same. Old hat now. I know exactly where my physical limits are. It's important, maybe one has to be fully animal before being fully human. Likely not -- I got no answers here, just a collections of days, stitched together to fill time. Who am I? is a question that matters more to others than yourself: you're just you.
Day 116 ended: Yogi Lee Trail
Friday, April 12, 2013
October 14: Miles per hour
Twenty-eight. The earth is a menace. It comes and keeps coming, tossing its rocks and branches at you in fits until it sits there silently wondering why this creature is to weak to strike back. For a second, only, it renews its attack. The wheels are friends that keep rolling, jumping around on the gravel, twisting left and right as they fight to hold on to this raring planet. When the road and the trees line up there isn't infinity there, just The End being pushed this way through no will of its own.
Twenty-nine. After each horizon another takes its place, but who can say this goes on? A horizon of color is left behind and no one can say now what color it was. A horizon of space beside me, and time, still, in the future. Some. Lives slip past.
I'm holding on to the handle, not used to the rumble jumble sliding around on a bucket seat. Safety belt on but I can't check the drivers. There's no thought here, just sensation. Thirty. Thirty miles per hour riding in Scott's car back to Thief River Falls, the fastest my body had been in months. It would be too perfect to say my soul had barely left the canoe -- but certainly my thoughts were there.
Slowness and standstill the rest of the day, I fought a more visceral battle with the ground as it chewed up spokes and inner tubes -- legs kept spinning.
Day 115 ended: I did not record the place
Twenty-nine. After each horizon another takes its place, but who can say this goes on? A horizon of color is left behind and no one can say now what color it was. A horizon of space beside me, and time, still, in the future. Some. Lives slip past.
I'm holding on to the handle, not used to the rumble jumble sliding around on a bucket seat. Safety belt on but I can't check the drivers. There's no thought here, just sensation. Thirty. Thirty miles per hour riding in Scott's car back to Thief River Falls, the fastest my body had been in months. It would be too perfect to say my soul had barely left the canoe -- but certainly my thoughts were there.
Slowness and standstill the rest of the day, I fought a more visceral battle with the ground as it chewed up spokes and inner tubes -- legs kept spinning.
Day 115 ended: I did not record the place
Thursday, April 11, 2013
October 13: Kevin's little floating adventure
My notes during the portage are a bit disjointed, but this newspaper article had it together:Written by April Scheinoha for the Northern Watch Online | |
He is biking and canoeing his way to New Orleans Five hours. Usually, the 17-mile trip from Newfolden to Thief River Falls doesn’t take that long. For Kevin Saff, it did. “At one point, I was a mile or two away, and I thought I was not going to make it,” Saff said. He was probably grateful that Hardware Hank and Anderson Power and Equipment are located on the west side of Thief River Falls. Saff is traveling via bike and canoe from Calgary, Alberta, Canada, to New Orleans, a trip of about 2,500 miles when traveling on roads. He rides the bike when he can’t travel by canoe. Prior to heading out, Saff put his rig together. The rig consists of the bike, a boat trailer and the canoe. The bike folds up for those moments when Saff can actually canoe. Besides the rig, Saff brought along a tent for those moments when he wants to sleep. He also brought along other necessities like a journal. This is the first time that Saff has participated in anything of this magnitude. In Missouri, he participated in a nine-day bike trip. He has also participated in “little bike trips here and there.” On June 22, Saff began the largest bike – and canoe – trip of his life thus far. In his words, he threw his boat into the Bow River in Calgary. It took him three months to travel to Winnipeg, a trip of about 825 miles when traveling on roads. From Manitoba, he made his way into the United States. Saff plans to travel down the Mississippi River to New Orleans. He expects that the Mississippi River leg will take about three months. “I’m just hoping I beat the freeze,” said Saff, who has read about similar travels on the Mississippi River. However, in Saff’s case, he may face difficulties that those travelers haven’t faced – darkness and colder weather. Saff has already faced some formidable foes that would have forced less hardy folks to abandon the trip. There was the foe known as the Red River. Saff was traveling upstream, when he encountered a set of rapids. Of course, then a wind gust blew him 20 feet backwards. The next day, it rained, and Saff was so sore that he decided to stay in his tent all day. Later, Saff continued making his way to New Orleans. On Sunday night, he found himself in a different city with “new” in the title: Newfolden. Saff was staying at the Newfolden City Park, when he was approached by Pastor Phil Rokke. “I thought I had to see this thing,” recalled Rokke, who noticed Saff’s rig. Saff looked like he needed to warm up, so Rokke invited Saff to his house for food and a place to spend the night. On Monday, Saff was off again on his trip. That’s when an axle broke on his boat trailer. It was hard for him to pedal, but he made it to Thief River Falls five hours later. At about 4 p.m. Monday, he arrived at the businesses Hardware Hank and Anderson Power and Equipment. Employees tried to find Saff the necessary parts to fix his trailer. They were unable to find the parts in Thief River Falls. Then employee Jim Voytilla salvaged some parts from his farm in Viking. Some spare tires were also given to Saff. By the time the parts were found and put into place, it was about 8 p.m. It was too late for Saff to put up a tent. Instead, Saff stayed overnight at employee Scott Hemingsen’s home in Viking. In the meantime, Saff’s bike and canoe were safe at Anderson Power and Equipment. On Tuesday morning, Saff was off again, leaving an envious employee, Lyle Hanson, in his wake. However, before leaving the city, Saff went to the Thief River Falls Public Library to check his e-mail and write in his blog, “Kevin’s Little Floating Adventure.” The blog is available by logging onto http://kevinfloat.blogspot.comOne thing she didn't mention was Jim's side of the story. He had seen me at a gas station and driven a good ten minutes down the road before thinking "That guy's canoe said Calgary. I bet he's in a lot of trouble." He turned back for me and in the end it was the bike wheel in his garden that had what I needed to make it to Itasca. Day 114 ended: Scott Hemingsen's home in Viking |
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
October 12: Iron Man
Jeremy H, the uncle of two of the boys, helped me out in an incredible way: he loaded me up with an extra jacket, donuts, canned food, a pair of tennis shoes for cycling, and all the cash in his wallet: $12. I decided to leave the gopher trap the boys wanted me to have. I pedaled out hoping for a 50 mile day; the leaves and grasses glowed in the rain, more golden than the sun.
Every crank of the pedals was harder than the rest. I blamed the wind, which angrily shook trees at me and shoved bugs in my face. I'll admit in retrospect the wind was blameless at this time... Anyway, only 32 miles later in Newfolden, I found another Wayside Rest that had a little dry patch of earth. I still don't really know what these are; most are little more than a rest stop on the side of the road, but this one was pretty nice. Inside it had lights and a fan that worked, running water, and on the exterior wall there was even an outlet I could use to recharge my camera.
I had hardly been there a jiffy before local pastor Phil Rokke showed up, insisting I spend the night inside. I did think about it, and my two thoughts ended up being it's raining and I need a shower. Phil biked with me back to his house and introduced me to his wife Marlene and their friends Jessica and Darin. I ended up getting not only a shower, but a wonderful pancake dinner, Iron Man on DVD, and a "Minnesota Mom" or two to worry about me on my way.
The next day Jessica and her 3 kids started out on their bikes with me on the way to Thief River Falls. One of them, Ruby, spent weeks making canoes out of newspaper in my honor.
Day 113 ended: Newfolden, MN
Every crank of the pedals was harder than the rest. I blamed the wind, which angrily shook trees at me and shoved bugs in my face. I'll admit in retrospect the wind was blameless at this time... Anyway, only 32 miles later in Newfolden, I found another Wayside Rest that had a little dry patch of earth. I still don't really know what these are; most are little more than a rest stop on the side of the road, but this one was pretty nice. Inside it had lights and a fan that worked, running water, and on the exterior wall there was even an outlet I could use to recharge my camera.
I had hardly been there a jiffy before local pastor Phil Rokke showed up, insisting I spend the night inside. I did think about it, and my two thoughts ended up being it's raining and I need a shower. Phil biked with me back to his house and introduced me to his wife Marlene and their friends Jessica and Darin. I ended up getting not only a shower, but a wonderful pancake dinner, Iron Man on DVD, and a "Minnesota Mom" or two to worry about me on my way.
The next day Jessica and her 3 kids started out on their bikes with me on the way to Thief River Falls. One of them, Ruby, spent weeks making canoes out of newspaper in my honor.
Day 113 ended: Newfolden, MN
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
October 11, Part 2: Brainstorm
Here's how you catch gophers. Put some peanut butter in this trap. You can turn them in for $3, or you can eat them. This guy around here made a living just killing gophers for awhile. You can have the trap. Really? Yeah, my friend bought it at a surplus sale and I won it off of him.
Hey, why don't you just break into that building over there and spend the night? Nobody's using it. My tent will be fine here. It's going to rain again. I don't think you're supposed to camp at the Wayside Rest. What's this? That's my tent. It's kind of a small tent.
Don't camp on the side of a hill. My cousin was in boy scouts and it rained and their tent filled with water because they camped on the side of a hill.
What is that? That's the trailer I built to pull my canoe. You don't just drag it on the ground?
Here's how you can catch fish. Just get a stick, some string, and cut up a can to make a hook. Then what? You can just let it hang out behind you. You can probably get bluegill or crappies.
Here's a scar from fighting dogs. Here's one from climbing a cherry tree. Um, here's one from riding my bike into a stop sign. Really? Cool!
[If you're ever lost outside with no money, then a bunch of 8-10 year old rural boys -- in this case, Brett, Blair, Bailey, and Bryce -- are probably your best bet for a great brainstorming session about survival. In return I had to field an earful of questions about my bike, my trailer, my canoe, and everything in it. Every question was asked four times as each of the B's discovered each item.]
Day 112 ended: Lake Bronson Wayside Rest
Hey, why don't you just break into that building over there and spend the night? Nobody's using it. My tent will be fine here. It's going to rain again. I don't think you're supposed to camp at the Wayside Rest. What's this? That's my tent. It's kind of a small tent.
Don't camp on the side of a hill. My cousin was in boy scouts and it rained and their tent filled with water because they camped on the side of a hill.
What is that? That's the trailer I built to pull my canoe. You don't just drag it on the ground?
Here's how you can catch fish. Just get a stick, some string, and cut up a can to make a hook. Then what? You can just let it hang out behind you. You can probably get bluegill or crappies.
Here's a scar from fighting dogs. Here's one from climbing a cherry tree. Um, here's one from riding my bike into a stop sign. Really? Cool!
[If you're ever lost outside with no money, then a bunch of 8-10 year old rural boys -- in this case, Brett, Blair, Bailey, and Bryce -- are probably your best bet for a great brainstorming session about survival. In return I had to field an earful of questions about my bike, my trailer, my canoe, and everything in it. Every question was asked four times as each of the B's discovered each item.]
Day 112 ended: Lake Bronson Wayside Rest
October 11, 2008, Part 1: Crossing the medicine line
Supposedly at one time the Indians referred to all white man's magic as "medicine," and no medicine was as potent as the 49th parallel. Crossing this invisible border was a way to earn salvation, a wall unbreached by American armies.
It can still be a place of changing fortunes.
I had always worried a bit about the border crossing. Crossing on a road meant I wasn't just sneaking over like I considered doing if I cross via the river, but still I was worried what response I was going to get as I walked down the line, pushing my contraption in the long line of cars. The worst scenario I could imagine was the border agents deciding my vehicle wasn't road-worthy. In that case they could turn me around and the Canadian agents might stop me too, until someone came to rescue me from the no-man's land between the borders.
As it turns out, I had no problems at that particular point. The agents maintained serious faces, but I felt like I amused them. One only asked what the mysterious powder in one of my unlabelled canisters was, and was satisfied by my insistence it was just brown sugar. The other questioned me at length about my trip: where I had come from, where I was going, and whether I was being treated well on the road. He spoke at length about his son's trips: walking across Spain, biking across the U.S., and later north from Tierra del Fuego. In fact, I think I was the one who cut the conversation short, trying to look out for the long line of cars behind me.
I stopped at the first gas station I saw. It was my friend Calvin's wedding day and I was determined to get ahold of him. My calling cards were dead, and I had no American cash or bank cards. I knew I would eventually have to make it to a Bank of America since I had lost my check card, and I needed to free some of my long-term savings to use it. I assumed a BoA would be findable relatively early on entry into Minnesota. In fact, there are no Banks of America anywhere in the state.
So, I decided to withdraw money from my Canadian bank at an ATM. First, I needed to check how much was available, so I asked for Account Balance, which resulted in the puzzling response "Invalid Operation." So I blindly attempted to withdraw first $60, then $40, then $20, to be met with, respectively, "Insufficient Funds," "Insufficient Funds," "Insufficient Funds."
Scrounging around in my canoe, I found a few loonies and toonies, and the $20 bill Sarah King had left in the Tilly hat she gave me. I had been saving it for a special occasion, and this was it. I bought a phone card and counted my money: $6 US and $13 Canadian plus change. Money was one less burden on the trip.
Calvin has organized a bicycle flotilla of groomsmen for his wedding; I interrupted their grand ride from a little gas station in Minnesota.
Day 112 continues.
It can still be a place of changing fortunes.
I had always worried a bit about the border crossing. Crossing on a road meant I wasn't just sneaking over like I considered doing if I cross via the river, but still I was worried what response I was going to get as I walked down the line, pushing my contraption in the long line of cars. The worst scenario I could imagine was the border agents deciding my vehicle wasn't road-worthy. In that case they could turn me around and the Canadian agents might stop me too, until someone came to rescue me from the no-man's land between the borders.
As it turns out, I had no problems at that particular point. The agents maintained serious faces, but I felt like I amused them. One only asked what the mysterious powder in one of my unlabelled canisters was, and was satisfied by my insistence it was just brown sugar. The other questioned me at length about my trip: where I had come from, where I was going, and whether I was being treated well on the road. He spoke at length about his son's trips: walking across Spain, biking across the U.S., and later north from Tierra del Fuego. In fact, I think I was the one who cut the conversation short, trying to look out for the long line of cars behind me.
I stopped at the first gas station I saw. It was my friend Calvin's wedding day and I was determined to get ahold of him. My calling cards were dead, and I had no American cash or bank cards. I knew I would eventually have to make it to a Bank of America since I had lost my check card, and I needed to free some of my long-term savings to use it. I assumed a BoA would be findable relatively early on entry into Minnesota. In fact, there are no Banks of America anywhere in the state.
So, I decided to withdraw money from my Canadian bank at an ATM. First, I needed to check how much was available, so I asked for Account Balance, which resulted in the puzzling response "Invalid Operation." So I blindly attempted to withdraw first $60, then $40, then $20, to be met with, respectively, "Insufficient Funds," "Insufficient Funds," "Insufficient Funds."
Scrounging around in my canoe, I found a few loonies and toonies, and the $20 bill Sarah King had left in the Tilly hat she gave me. I had been saving it for a special occasion, and this was it. I bought a phone card and counted my money: $6 US and $13 Canadian plus change. Money was one less burden on the trip.
Calvin has organized a bicycle flotilla of groomsmen for his wedding; I interrupted their grand ride from a little gas station in Minnesota.
Day 112 continues.
Monday, April 8, 2013
October 10, 2008: I have troubles
I have troubles describing the music that ails me. That music! That music! Won't someone make that music stop! You all know that music I mean. That music at night, that's what I'm talking about. The only problem is I don't know what what what - what what - what what I'm talking about. It's that music at night that could be trance or rap but is probably just top 40 played all distorted like from a nasty sound-system distorted by the wind as it whips over the tallgrass prairie. Everyone has had this experience.
So you're biking along in southern Manitoba and you see some kid drive by on an ATV. He is not the one dragging a sound system, but some other kid musta been -- this is what you figure later. There's not much to do except set up your tent in the prairie. This place is called the "Tolstoi Tallgrass Prairie Preserve" and must be named after Leo Tolstoy because there are some decrepit pre-Soviet buildings in the area. So you're happily pretending your little edition of Hemingway stories is Tolstoy and you're sleeping and you're walking out under the distant stars when the distant booming starts.
It's nasty, pudding on the floor music. Nobody knows what genre it is so we call it ugly boom-boom mu'sic.
When this happens, you have to put on some pants. That means you have to find your pants. And that usually involves several minutes of frantic searching for fresh batteries for your flashlight. And that usually results in discovering that you're already wearing pants. Then you put your flashlight in your mouth and crawl through the itchy grasses. Remember, there's ugly boom-boom mu'sic in the distance and you're itching all over because you didn't put on a shirt and you're crawling through grass, which wasn't very wise, so you're really frustrated and trying to imagine what you would do when you find the kids playing the music. These are the options usually considered:
#1: Jump up in the middle of their frenzied dance circle, surprising them so that they cry out and the kid who had a joint hanging from his lip loses it in the grass which catches fire. Everyone starts running from the towering inferno which only amplifies the ugly boom-boom mu'sic in the folds of its flames as it angrily casts evergreens at your naked torso. Whenever you have struggles in the future you will remember how you nearly overcame them on this day.
#2: You will just stand there off to the side, slowly shaking your head back in forth in disgust. One by one the kids will see you and shame-facedly walk to their ATVs and drive away silently -- not crying yet, but some day soon they will examine their lives, stop listening to ugly boom-boom mu'sic and apply themselves at school. They will do well enough to go to university; they will study and become lawyers. When you meet one of them, years later, you will wonder if this trade-off was worth it, but for now, you slowly fade down the music in the middle of the prairie and pack out their garbage, still slowly shaking your head.
#3: Not ever be able to find them, and realize you are cold, itchy, and don't actually want to be wearing pants anyway. You'll walk back to your tent and pray for rain. In only a few minutes the first drop will flick your rain fly, then another until the music fades into the static of the night. You won't even be able to hear the ATVs drive away, nor pity their drivers. The rain will put you to sleep, and in your dreams, there is no ugly boom-boom mu'sic.
Every situation calls for its own judgment; in this case, I went for #3. The rain did its job efficiently; there was just enough to drive away the party but by the morning it had all dried out.
Day 111 ended: Tolstoi Tallgrass Prairie Preserve.
[Note: my GPS froze and lost its recorded data sometime later on the Mississippi River. Since it had been some time since I had copied the data into my notebook, there are no precise GPS waypoints available after day 110. I may later go back and determine approximate locations, but this would have to wait for a book version of this blog.]
So you're biking along in southern Manitoba and you see some kid drive by on an ATV. He is not the one dragging a sound system, but some other kid musta been -- this is what you figure later. There's not much to do except set up your tent in the prairie. This place is called the "Tolstoi Tallgrass Prairie Preserve" and must be named after Leo Tolstoy because there are some decrepit pre-Soviet buildings in the area. So you're happily pretending your little edition of Hemingway stories is Tolstoy and you're sleeping and you're walking out under the distant stars when the distant booming starts.
It's nasty, pudding on the floor music. Nobody knows what genre it is so we call it ugly boom-boom mu'sic.
When this happens, you have to put on some pants. That means you have to find your pants. And that usually involves several minutes of frantic searching for fresh batteries for your flashlight. And that usually results in discovering that you're already wearing pants. Then you put your flashlight in your mouth and crawl through the itchy grasses. Remember, there's ugly boom-boom mu'sic in the distance and you're itching all over because you didn't put on a shirt and you're crawling through grass, which wasn't very wise, so you're really frustrated and trying to imagine what you would do when you find the kids playing the music. These are the options usually considered:
#1: Jump up in the middle of their frenzied dance circle, surprising them so that they cry out and the kid who had a joint hanging from his lip loses it in the grass which catches fire. Everyone starts running from the towering inferno which only amplifies the ugly boom-boom mu'sic in the folds of its flames as it angrily casts evergreens at your naked torso. Whenever you have struggles in the future you will remember how you nearly overcame them on this day.
#2: You will just stand there off to the side, slowly shaking your head back in forth in disgust. One by one the kids will see you and shame-facedly walk to their ATVs and drive away silently -- not crying yet, but some day soon they will examine their lives, stop listening to ugly boom-boom mu'sic and apply themselves at school. They will do well enough to go to university; they will study and become lawyers. When you meet one of them, years later, you will wonder if this trade-off was worth it, but for now, you slowly fade down the music in the middle of the prairie and pack out their garbage, still slowly shaking your head.
#3: Not ever be able to find them, and realize you are cold, itchy, and don't actually want to be wearing pants anyway. You'll walk back to your tent and pray for rain. In only a few minutes the first drop will flick your rain fly, then another until the music fades into the static of the night. You won't even be able to hear the ATVs drive away, nor pity their drivers. The rain will put you to sleep, and in your dreams, there is no ugly boom-boom mu'sic.
Every situation calls for its own judgment; in this case, I went for #3. The rain did its job efficiently; there was just enough to drive away the party but by the morning it had all dried out.
Day 111 ended: Tolstoi Tallgrass Prairie Preserve.
[Note: my GPS froze and lost its recorded data sometime later on the Mississippi River. Since it had been some time since I had copied the data into my notebook, there are no precise GPS waypoints available after day 110. I may later go back and determine approximate locations, but this would have to wait for a book version of this blog.]
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