Fargo, North Dakota

I rode my longest day (92.5 miles / 148.9 km) in the hottest weather (101 degrees F / 38 C) just to get to Fargo.  The promise of air conditioning was the primary motivating factor, and in spite of what I wrote earlier, not the fact that I wanted to get the hell out of North Dakota as soon as possible. 

I had a place to stay in Fargo, thanks to www.warmshowers.org.  My hosts, Pete and Geni even called me on my cell phone while I was still cycling in the middle of some corn field that day.  Geni left a message that if I hadn't yet succumbed to  the sweltering heat, I could look forward to a nice air-conditioned room if I wanted to make the push into Fargo.  Once I heard that message, I don't think I ever stopped pedaling even once that afternoon.

Both Pete and Geni are world-class cyclists.  Pete is retired from the Air Force and Geni from teaching.  When planning a tour, they have 18 bikes to choose from, including two Bike Fridays.  There are those who think that my little trek across the United States is a bit extreme, but it's Pete who truly defines "extreme" cycling.  He has competed multiple times in the Iditasport, a 100-mile bicycle race.  No big deal?  How about if it's in Alaska, in the snow, overnight (as necessary), and in February?!  I got to see the video Pete made, but if you really want to see something extreme sports and not just a stroll across the states, check out www.fairbankscycleclub.org/Winter/iditasport.shtml.

The Scandinavian (and especially Norwegian) heritage is very strong throughout North Dakota.  The guided tour of Fargo (by bicycle) included a spin through Lindenwood Park where a Norwegian "stave" (a particular type of church) has been completely reconstructed.  The photo here gives you an idea of the incredible workmanship that has gone into the roof line alone.

I would hate to destroy the image that this cross-country trip is anything but an arduous journey that only the very hardiest can survive.  However, my stay in Fargo leaned to the luxurious side.  Pete likes to cook, so dinners were a feast and the homemade scones at breakfast were to die for.  Geni laundered and folded my cycling clothes for me.  Does it get any better than this?

Don't get me wrong: a trip like this is difficult, but I am definitely up to it.  Pass the butter for the scones, please.

 

Uff da! Beer and brats

Hey, this must be Minnesota.  Actually, "uff da" is the only expression in the Minnesotan language that I am familiar with, but I speak fluent beer and brats, so it's not a problem.  "Brats", in this case, is not the offspring of young Minnesotan parents.  It is short for bratwurst, again reflecting the area's German and Scandinavian heritage.  Beer and brats are ubiquitous, can be found everywhere, and appear to be the primary foodstuffs of the populace of northern Minnesota.

My favorite terrain for natural beauty includes mountains, lakes, and trees.  Minnesota doesn't have any mountains to my knowledge, but the state has plenty of lakes and trees.  The forest is so dense, in fact, that many times you don't even see the lakes, except on the map (or GPS, in my case).  The Minnesota license plate touts the Land of 10,000 Lakes, but they conveniently omit any mention of the 10 zillion mosquitoes who also love the innumerable lakes that they call home.

It takes about 40 miles traveling east from North Dakota before the terrain changes noticeably, but after those first miles, the flat, open fields planted with wheat or corn gradually give way to rolling hills covered with trees.  My first night's stay was at Tamarac Lodge on Round Lake, inside the Tamarac State Wildlife Refuge.  Luckily I had arrived on $1 hamburger night, so I promptly ordered two.  In the spirit of sensitivity to my cultural environment, I also ordered (though not simultaneously) four beers to go with the two hamburgers.  My dehydrated inner child must have ordered them.  Anyway, it was a beautiful campsite, and I managed to lock myself securely inside my tent before the witching hour for mosquitoes.

Some of the prettiest scenery in northern Minnesota was along the bike path through Lake Itasca State Park.  In the middle of the park, there is a magnificent 1909 lodge where I stopped for lunch.  A few miles further up the trail can be found the headwaters of the Mississippi River.  It starts as a little stream draining Lake Itasca, easily traversed on foot through water no more than a foot deep, and continues another 1,500 miles (2,414 km) until it reaches the Gulf Coast.  It took several years for American explorers to find the headwaters, but they looked very diligently because the Mississippi headwaters defined the upper reaches of the Louisiana Purchase.  [At least that's what someone told me.]  After several false findings, they discovered Lake Itasca whose name derives from the Latin "veritas caput", or very forgivingly translated, the "true head".  It's the veritable truth.

I didn't think I would outdo the beauty of camping on Round Lake so soon, but the next night at Lake Winnibigoshish ("Lake Winnie" to her close friends), I was camped just a few feet from the water with an even better view of the lake.  There were three families sharing a campsite next to me, each with an entourage of two or three children, adding to the cheerful ambiance.  I knew I was in trouble, however, when they invited me over later that night because "we like to party".  And party they did; unfortunately, to the great detriment of my peaceful enjoyment of Lake Winnie.  They set up a bean bag toss competition which ended right next to my tent.  It wasn't the little kids that were a problem, it was the adult adolescents.  The next morning, just for the heck of it, I walked over and counted twenty-two empty beer cans, two empty wine bottles, and one empty bottle of something or other than was smashed to smithereens in the fire ring.  A good time was had by all, I guess.

Since then, I have come across a lot more of the famous Midwestern hospitality.  A forest service ranger, Greg, passed me one day in his pickup truck while he was on his way home for lunch.  By the time I got to his place, about fifteen or twenty minutes later, he waved me down and invited me in for water and snacks and lots of bike talk.  It was really great.  The next day, another guy (Joe), who had seen me dragging my weary ... well, you know ... for the last five miles at the end of the day.  He pulled up alongside me in his pickup truck, and shouted out an invitation to camp on his lawn down by the lake, and to have dinner with him and his dad.  I must have done something right in a former lifetime, because once there, I was served my favorite meal of steak, potatoes, corn-on-the-cob, and a California merlot.  John (Joe's dad, 81 years old) also mixes a mean Manhattan; moreover, John is from Manhattan, but is not mean.  In fact, he added a hot shower and a roof over my head for the evening to an already attractive offer.

Sunday, July 23rd, represents a milestone: I've reached the halfway point.  At exactly 2,215 miles (3,565 km), there appeared before me a miraculous vision: a Dairy Queen!  Obviously, it would have been very bad karma to ignore The Fates, so at 2,215.15 miles I stopped for a hamburger and a root beer freeze.  [I have rediscovered my youth in my now frequent indulgence of root beer freezes.]  In Aitkin, MN, with a population of 1,984, there was even a shady park with picnic tables right next door to the DQ.  This was obviously meant to be.

That night I arrived in Isle, MN, ready to treat myself to an air-conditioned motel room (as a reward for reaching the halfway point).  Alas, no room at the inn.  The proprietress of the only motel in town (rather shabby at that) directed me to the state park campground a half mile down the road.  Before leaving town, though, I went to the grocery store to buy dinner: a concoction of rigatoni, hamburger, and tomato sauce from the deli that you only needed to reheat.  The ingredients suggested a fine red wine as accompaniment, but I found out the hard way that you cannot buy alcohol in the state of Minnesota on Sunday.  [I was also told that you cannot buy an automobile on Sunday in Minnesota, but I don't get the connection.]  One must be flexible, however, so I opted for a liter bottle of raspberry-flavored sparkling water, even though it wasn't wine, it tasted pretty darn good.

I arrived at Father Hennepin State Park (a 17th century Frenchman who first explored Minnesota) just a little before 8:00 pm, barely in  time to set up camp and fix dinner.  The park is situated directly on Mille Lacs Lake (pronounced "millacks"), and --- beating the odds --- my campsite was even more beautiful than the other two lakefront ones.  Unfortunately, I did not make it inside the tent before the mosquito witching hour began, so while I put away my stove and cooking gear, I had to stomp around the picnic table, flailing my arms wildly in the air, and squashing mercilessly the few intrepid mosquitoes who landed on me anyway.  I was pretty effective: only five or six bites.  It might also be that the mosquitoes were simply afraid that they would contract "Mad Howard" disease.

Photos?  You want to see photos?  Take a look.