Manitoba
We went over the border into Manitoba, our second province, directly north of North Dakota. Here the landscape changed from mountainous dense forest to agricultural plains and deciduous trees, and my GPS told me that we are at latitude 50 degrees north, which is five degrees north of the Twin Cities.
There's a crop being grown here that mystifies me. It looks for all the world like a weed, yet it's grown in huge fields for miles and miles. It's green, short — maybe eighteen inches high — and is topped with small yellow flowers. What's disconcerting about it is the sickly greenish-yellow color that fills your field of view — that and the smell is enough to give you a headache. The stuff smells like the intersection of agriculture, pesticide, and oil refinery. It definitely isn't wheat, but what is it? A Visitor Information Center provided the answer: It's canola, that cooking oil that's good for you, and you can tell from its very name (can + ola) that it comes from Canada.
We sailed through Winnipeg, verified its existence as a city, and kept going north of town to spend the night at Bird Hill Provincial Park, the huge park that hosts the Winnipeg Folk Festival. (Why, you might ask, didn't I plan to be here during the festival? Because it took place two weeks ago, and getting here for it would have required planning and reservations and rushing... in other words, not in the spirit of this adventure.)
I really wanted to find that accessory for my PC, so next day I turned on my GPS and asked it to find "Best Buy." It found two of them in Winnipeg, so I told it to plan the route to one of them. I easily followed the route from the park, but when the GPS announced that the destination was on the right, I saw only a Wendy's. Thinking I must have missed something, I drove a bit further and around a corner and asked it to route me there again. And it took me right back to the same Wendy's! (Humph! Thanks a lot, Garmin!) I turned the GPS off and headed for a Staples office supply I'd spotted visually and easily bought the accessory there for $20. One of the advantages of a city: stores with stuff you want in stock.
At a stoplight, I glanced at the lane to my left and was astonished to see a Yamaha Vino motor scooter, the very same model I had considered buying last month. Impulsively I smiled and said "Hi there, how do you like your Vino?" The rider turned to me and rattled off all the things she liked about it, and as the light turned green, sped off with "Love it! Highly recommended!" Sigh. I still want one.
Feeling hungry, I stopped at a McDonald's for lunch. In the men's washroom I discovered there was no soap. I looked for the little sign, and there it was, "...please tell the manager immediately." I found the manager standing talking with a customer. "Excuse me," I said politely. "There's no soap in the men's room." To my surprise, the manager, a short, dark-haired fellow, shot me a withering look and sneered, "I'm on my lunch break." Hmmm. Not the level of customer service I'd expected, and I seriously doubt that any management training seminars will change his surly character.. Then too, the campground's staff had seemed stressed and anxious. Am I just noticing the difference that a city makes? In any case, it was time to exit Winnipeg, and we headed west.
Manitoba's terrain is remarkably similar to Minnesota's: agricultural prairies in the south, wooded hills in the north. By driving northward, and gaining altitude, I hoped for cooler weather, but unfortunately that was not what we found. A heat wave extended far and wide, and we were unable to escape it. The weather was grimly similar to the Twin Cities, hot and humid. The best we were able to do is find a forested campground in a provincial park and relax until nightfall — say, around nine PM — when a cooling breeze brought us around.
Next day we continued northward to a village with the lovely name of Swan River, and stayed at a private campground. Did some shopping in the morning, including a visit to a Manitoba liquor store. It was a lot like any other liquor store, apart from its minuscule size, tiny selection, and high prices — eight dollars for a six-pack of Labatt's, nine dollars for the cheapest bottle of wine. The library offered Wi-Fi Internet access, but for some reason I couldn't get the access to work with my laptop — why is it that technology installed to help the public can be so temperamental?
Saskatchewan
Next day we drove yet farther north, turned west, and crossed into Saskatchewan, our third province, due north of Montana. The terrain was still agriculturally cultivated prairie dominated by that sickening mystery crop, and the weather still hot and muggy. I had originally suspected that driving across the prairie might be boring, but little had I realized how far north it extended, or how obnoxious it would be. We finally stopped for the night in Tisdale, a lovely name (doesn't it evoke tea and crumpets, or maybe a semi-soft cheese?) for a small prairie town with a municipal campground. Although Internet access was available at the library and an Internet cafe, both were closed on a Saturday morning. (The Internet never sleeps, but apparently access does.)
Next day we passed through Prince Albert, a city only slightly larger than Moose Jaw, and continued fleeing northward to Prince Albert National Park, the northernmost in the province. We spent a quiet night in one of the campgrounds, although the mosquitoes there were the most numerous we'd encountered. In bed, I fought off several attacks, and as I fell asleep, I heard an actual humming chorus of mosquitoes coming, thankfully, from the other side of the window screen. In the morning we discovered the lakeside village of Waskesiu, a tourist destination of lodges, cabins, restaurants and Wi-Fi hotspots — Saskatchewan's equivalent of Minnesota's Grand Marais.
We continued northward and westward but the heat continued — one afternoon it hit 33 Canadian degrees (that's 90 US degrees) and we really felt it. Sat in the shade in a provincial park campsite and waited for nightfall, when a little rain fell and the temperature came down — the heat wave had broken at last..
Menominee has been a remarkably good traveler, considering that she never naturally took to rides in cars or RVs. She seems to understand that this time it's different — We're on an adventure together, and the RV is her home. So she has learned to relax when we're on the road, even napping sometimes. When we stop, she's curious to look out the window and see what's there, and of course if it's our camp site for the night, she's ready to go out the door and explore it. She really loves the outdoors, and especially the forested outdoors, with its trees, shrubs, grass, insects, and small furry creatures. When she caught a small mouse-like animal one evening and played with it, she was one happy cat, and the next day she had a noticeably improved attitude about the adventure.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Canada!
As you approach Canada, northbound on highway 61, there's a point where you crest a hill, and the elevation gives you an incredible view to the north. It's picture-perfect and says, "Ahead lies Canada — It's wonderful!"
At the Canadian border, we were met by rather stern border guards. We were grilled about our nationality, residence, purpose of trip, and contents of the RV. Menominee was required to show her certificate of vaccination (thanks, Dr. Julie!) and I had to go indoors to meet with an Immigration Officer. I pleaded "eight-week vacation" but he seemed suspicious that I might have other designs. Eventually, almost grudgingly, he allowed us in. Whoo-hoo! We're in Canada now! As we approached Thunder Bay, we heard thunder overhead.
Western Ontario
After a night camped in Thunder Bay, we headed west on the Trans-Canadian Highway. Suburbs give way to wilderness, and I mean real wilderness. The highway goes along the border of Quetico Provincial Park, the wilderness that is neighbor to Minnesota's Boundary Waters Canoe Area. The road is two lanes of blacktop heading west past dense forest. There are no cars in front of you, none behind you, as far as you can see. It's just you and the wilderness, which is deep and dark and gorgeous and enticing, but you can't go in — there are no roads into the wilderness. You can't even stop, because there's no place to stop. No scenic overlook, no rest stop, not even a turnout for a side road, and the shoulders are so narrow, by the time you'd pulled off the road, you'd have tumbled into the ditch. You just gotta keep going, on and on, watching the beauty go by.
Nearly out of gas and daylight, we arrived at Atikokan, a village of cheerful people, one campground, and one Internet cafe. (In short, perfect!) It was here that I first heard the "eh?" expression used by a Canadian, and it didn't make me laugh! It seemed perfectly normal and natural, a grammatical construction as understandable to me as to him.
Another day of driving past rugged forests brought us to Fort Frances, across the border from International Falls, MN, and Rainy Lake — yes, the weather was a bit rainy. Had dinner at a KFC and discovered that the Colonel uses a different recipe up here in Canada — very mild — and there's no choice of original, crispy, or grilled. Well, here I am, living like a Canadian!
Mosquitoes? Yes, Canada has them too, and they aren't much different from Minnesota's, although I did see one that was big enough it looked like it could be growing feathers. We like to think of Canada as a purer, better place, but, as a tourist brochure suggests, Your vacation will be more enjoyable if you use insect repellent. Menominee loves to hunt and catch and eat moths and dragonflies, and I had hopes that she might hunt mosquitoes too (and earn her keep). But no, she ignores them. I held a dead one under her nose; she sniffed it and turned away — unappetizing, I guess.
Our radio reception to this point had consisted of Minnesota Public Radio throughout Minnesota, and even after we crossed into Canada we could pick up one MPR station or another (Houghton, Bemidji). But as we headed north and left the border behind us, we found slim pickings. Usually there were one or two local stations playing popular music, but CBC wasn't always there — it makes no attempt to cover all of Canada. Makes you appreciate the way MPR and NPR cover their territories.
Still in beautifully wooded hills, we stopped for the night at Caliper Lake Provincial Park, a real gem out in the middle of nowhere.(Recommended) I guess its secret is being far enough away from civilization to keep out the riffraff, because on this July weekend the campground was only a third filled. Quiet, peaceful, on the shore of a pristine lake, and at sundown the call of the loon. The following night we stayed at Rushing River Provincial Park, whose hundreds of campsites were nearly filled by families with kids. Evidently it's close enough to Winnipeg that the city folk like to come here for vacation.
Next day we explored Kenora, population 16,000, picturesquely located on the northern shore of Lake of the Woods (yes, the same Lake of the Woods of Minnesota repute — it extends way up here). Little Kenora has obvious potential for excellence but unfortunately the town government is going about it in the wrong ways — for example covering downtown with parking meters and building an ugly concrete parking ramp. Sigh. I found an electronics store here and inquired about an accessory for my PC, but they didn't have any. Asked also at the WalMart, but they didn't have any either. (Makes you want to order it on the Internet, doesn't it?)
At the Canadian border, we were met by rather stern border guards. We were grilled about our nationality, residence, purpose of trip, and contents of the RV. Menominee was required to show her certificate of vaccination (thanks, Dr. Julie!) and I had to go indoors to meet with an Immigration Officer. I pleaded "eight-week vacation" but he seemed suspicious that I might have other designs. Eventually, almost grudgingly, he allowed us in. Whoo-hoo! We're in Canada now! As we approached Thunder Bay, we heard thunder overhead.
Western Ontario
After a night camped in Thunder Bay, we headed west on the Trans-Canadian Highway. Suburbs give way to wilderness, and I mean real wilderness. The highway goes along the border of Quetico Provincial Park, the wilderness that is neighbor to Minnesota's Boundary Waters Canoe Area. The road is two lanes of blacktop heading west past dense forest. There are no cars in front of you, none behind you, as far as you can see. It's just you and the wilderness, which is deep and dark and gorgeous and enticing, but you can't go in — there are no roads into the wilderness. You can't even stop, because there's no place to stop. No scenic overlook, no rest stop, not even a turnout for a side road, and the shoulders are so narrow, by the time you'd pulled off the road, you'd have tumbled into the ditch. You just gotta keep going, on and on, watching the beauty go by.
Nearly out of gas and daylight, we arrived at Atikokan, a village of cheerful people, one campground, and one Internet cafe. (In short, perfect!) It was here that I first heard the "eh?" expression used by a Canadian, and it didn't make me laugh! It seemed perfectly normal and natural, a grammatical construction as understandable to me as to him.
Another day of driving past rugged forests brought us to Fort Frances, across the border from International Falls, MN, and Rainy Lake — yes, the weather was a bit rainy. Had dinner at a KFC and discovered that the Colonel uses a different recipe up here in Canada — very mild — and there's no choice of original, crispy, or grilled. Well, here I am, living like a Canadian!
Mosquitoes? Yes, Canada has them too, and they aren't much different from Minnesota's, although I did see one that was big enough it looked like it could be growing feathers. We like to think of Canada as a purer, better place, but, as a tourist brochure suggests, Your vacation will be more enjoyable if you use insect repellent. Menominee loves to hunt and catch and eat moths and dragonflies, and I had hopes that she might hunt mosquitoes too (and earn her keep). But no, she ignores them. I held a dead one under her nose; she sniffed it and turned away — unappetizing, I guess.
Our radio reception to this point had consisted of Minnesota Public Radio throughout Minnesota, and even after we crossed into Canada we could pick up one MPR station or another (Houghton, Bemidji). But as we headed north and left the border behind us, we found slim pickings. Usually there were one or two local stations playing popular music, but CBC wasn't always there — it makes no attempt to cover all of Canada. Makes you appreciate the way MPR and NPR cover their territories.
Still in beautifully wooded hills, we stopped for the night at Caliper Lake Provincial Park, a real gem out in the middle of nowhere.(Recommended) I guess its secret is being far enough away from civilization to keep out the riffraff, because on this July weekend the campground was only a third filled. Quiet, peaceful, on the shore of a pristine lake, and at sundown the call of the loon. The following night we stayed at Rushing River Provincial Park, whose hundreds of campsites were nearly filled by families with kids. Evidently it's close enough to Winnipeg that the city folk like to come here for vacation.
Next day we explored Kenora, population 16,000, picturesquely located on the northern shore of Lake of the Woods (yes, the same Lake of the Woods of Minnesota repute — it extends way up here). Little Kenora has obvious potential for excellence but unfortunately the town government is going about it in the wrong ways — for example covering downtown with parking meters and building an ugly concrete parking ramp. Sigh. I found an electronics store here and inquired about an accessory for my PC, but they didn't have any. Asked also at the WalMart, but they didn't have any either. (Makes you want to order it on the Internet, doesn't it?)
Monday, July 16, 2007
The North Shore
Split Rock
Dropping down from Ely to the North Shore, I headed for Split Rock Lighthouse. Ah, Split Rock! Its beauty arouses the spirits of artists and photographers. I hadn't been there before and was looking forward to it. This summer holiday weekend it was full of tourists from everywhere, the ticket sellers were completely dysfunctional, the 20-minute introductory movie had lousy production values, and the lighthouse itself was, frankly, pretty rinky-dink. Run by the State Historical Society, I give it high marks for preservation, barely passing for operations.
Northward on highway 61, I found a private campground and rented their last campsite for three times what I'd paid in Ely, with their enthusiastic assurance that it was "the last available campsite on the whole North Shore!" Sheesh. With planning, I could have avoided these holiday crowds, but then, planning is what this adventure is NOT about.
Grand Marais
Next day I finally made it to the sanity of Grand Marais. What a gem! Located on a natural harbor on Lake Superior, the town's distance from the Twin Cities keeps out the riffraff and their bratty kids--you have to know about Grand Marais, be willing to drive the distance, and then spend some time there. It's small enough that it's charming and easy to walk around, but large enough to have the desired amenities. For example, The Angry Trout restaurant (Recommended) serving freshly-caught fish with delicious accompaniments and an attractive presentation, indoors or out on the deck, around $20. At the more plebeian Blue Water restaurant, you can get a huge filet of fried, home-battered walleye for $10 while looking out at the harbor from the second-floor windows. Then there's Sven and Ole's, which I enjoyed more for the atmosphere than the pizza. I stayed at the huge, modern, well-run Municipal Campground (Recommended).
The Stalled-Engine Incident
Having packed up the RV and pulled out of the campsite, I got all of 100 feet across the campground before the engine sputtered, died, and refused to start. While I glumly stared under the hood, a campground employee came over to commiserate. In a nice episode of male bonding, we examined the facts and agreed it (a) was fuel related, (b) wasn't flooded, so likely to be (c) the fuel pump or (d) a clogged gas line. This being Sunday, I decided to stay another night at the campground (which had the advantage that I could sample more restaurants), This wonderful person (who moved here from Minneapolis thirty years ago and teaches high school science the rest of the year) chained me to the campground pickup and towed me over to an empty campsite, then pushed me back into it while I steered. Gosh, the residents up here are good people!
For the rest of the morning I watched a parade of end-of-the-holiday-weekend campers departing the campground in their dinosaurs — humongous RVs, bigger and more powerful than Greyhound buses, with very upscale features. For example, I watched one stop, and with a soft hiss of air the door opened, and steps automatically descended to the ground, so the wife could drop some trash in the Dumpster. But driving a dinosaur wasn't enough — most pulled their full-size SUV behind. Talk about a carbon footprint! Talk about the increasing gap between the haves and have-nots.
Monday morning I called a tow truck to haul my Ford RV over to the Chevy dealer (the only car dealer, and largest garage in town), where they kindly took me in, diagnosed a faulty fuel pump, locally found a suitable replacement, installed it, and sent me on my way, all in the same afternoon. Of course, it cost upwards of three hundred dollars, but man, the feeling of relief was worth it.
Naniboujou
Leaving Grand Marais the next morning, I headed to Naniboujou Lodge for lunch. I had long heard about it, read about it in newspaper and magazine articles, and was fascinated with the lurid history of its magnificent wooden structure, way up there on the Gunflint Trail. Heck, I'd never even been on the Gunflint Trail before, so it was time. I gassed up the RV and with great expectations headed up the Trail. Wide and smooth at first, after a few miles it became a narrow old blacktop road with bumps and cracks. Ten miles went by. Twenty. I began to wonder how far up the Trail the lodge was. Of course, I could have looked it up before I left, but isn't it more fun this way? Twenty five, thirty miles. It was odd, I thought, that the lodge wasn't mentioned on any of the signposts. I pulled off the road and walked into an establishment. The jolly fellow behind the desk laughed and told me, "You're on the wrong road! It's on highway 61." Driving back downhill, I wanted to believe him, yet the thought nagged me that the Naniboujou could be just a few miles higher, and he was sending me on a wild goose chase.
An hour later I pulled off highway 61 into Naniboujou's parking lot. The structure was a lot less magnificent than I'd expected, and its location on the shore of Lake Superior baffled me. But the dining room was open and its ceiling was decorated more garishly than any sane person could imagine. The food was wonderful — the French onion soup was luscious, even the side salad was exceptional — the atmosphere just right, and the price not as much as you might fear (lunch under $15). (Recommended)
Dropping down from Ely to the North Shore, I headed for Split Rock Lighthouse. Ah, Split Rock! Its beauty arouses the spirits of artists and photographers. I hadn't been there before and was looking forward to it. This summer holiday weekend it was full of tourists from everywhere, the ticket sellers were completely dysfunctional, the 20-minute introductory movie had lousy production values, and the lighthouse itself was, frankly, pretty rinky-dink. Run by the State Historical Society, I give it high marks for preservation, barely passing for operations.
Northward on highway 61, I found a private campground and rented their last campsite for three times what I'd paid in Ely, with their enthusiastic assurance that it was "the last available campsite on the whole North Shore!" Sheesh. With planning, I could have avoided these holiday crowds, but then, planning is what this adventure is NOT about.
Grand Marais
Next day I finally made it to the sanity of Grand Marais. What a gem! Located on a natural harbor on Lake Superior, the town's distance from the Twin Cities keeps out the riffraff and their bratty kids--you have to know about Grand Marais, be willing to drive the distance, and then spend some time there. It's small enough that it's charming and easy to walk around, but large enough to have the desired amenities. For example, The Angry Trout restaurant (Recommended) serving freshly-caught fish with delicious accompaniments and an attractive presentation, indoors or out on the deck, around $20. At the more plebeian Blue Water restaurant, you can get a huge filet of fried, home-battered walleye for $10 while looking out at the harbor from the second-floor windows. Then there's Sven and Ole's, which I enjoyed more for the atmosphere than the pizza. I stayed at the huge, modern, well-run Municipal Campground (Recommended).
The Stalled-Engine Incident
Having packed up the RV and pulled out of the campsite, I got all of 100 feet across the campground before the engine sputtered, died, and refused to start. While I glumly stared under the hood, a campground employee came over to commiserate. In a nice episode of male bonding, we examined the facts and agreed it (a) was fuel related, (b) wasn't flooded, so likely to be (c) the fuel pump or (d) a clogged gas line. This being Sunday, I decided to stay another night at the campground (which had the advantage that I could sample more restaurants), This wonderful person (who moved here from Minneapolis thirty years ago and teaches high school science the rest of the year) chained me to the campground pickup and towed me over to an empty campsite, then pushed me back into it while I steered. Gosh, the residents up here are good people!
For the rest of the morning I watched a parade of end-of-the-holiday-weekend campers departing the campground in their dinosaurs — humongous RVs, bigger and more powerful than Greyhound buses, with very upscale features. For example, I watched one stop, and with a soft hiss of air the door opened, and steps automatically descended to the ground, so the wife could drop some trash in the Dumpster. But driving a dinosaur wasn't enough — most pulled their full-size SUV behind. Talk about a carbon footprint! Talk about the increasing gap between the haves and have-nots.
Monday morning I called a tow truck to haul my Ford RV over to the Chevy dealer (the only car dealer, and largest garage in town), where they kindly took me in, diagnosed a faulty fuel pump, locally found a suitable replacement, installed it, and sent me on my way, all in the same afternoon. Of course, it cost upwards of three hundred dollars, but man, the feeling of relief was worth it.
Naniboujou
Leaving Grand Marais the next morning, I headed to Naniboujou Lodge for lunch. I had long heard about it, read about it in newspaper and magazine articles, and was fascinated with the lurid history of its magnificent wooden structure, way up there on the Gunflint Trail. Heck, I'd never even been on the Gunflint Trail before, so it was time. I gassed up the RV and with great expectations headed up the Trail. Wide and smooth at first, after a few miles it became a narrow old blacktop road with bumps and cracks. Ten miles went by. Twenty. I began to wonder how far up the Trail the lodge was. Of course, I could have looked it up before I left, but isn't it more fun this way? Twenty five, thirty miles. It was odd, I thought, that the lodge wasn't mentioned on any of the signposts. I pulled off the road and walked into an establishment. The jolly fellow behind the desk laughed and told me, "You're on the wrong road! It's on highway 61." Driving back downhill, I wanted to believe him, yet the thought nagged me that the Naniboujou could be just a few miles higher, and he was sending me on a wild goose chase.
An hour later I pulled off highway 61 into Naniboujou's parking lot. The structure was a lot less magnificent than I'd expected, and its location on the shore of Lake Superior baffled me. But the dining room was open and its ceiling was decorated more garishly than any sane person could imagine. The food was wonderful — the French onion soup was luscious, even the side salad was exceptional — the atmosphere just right, and the price not as much as you might fear (lunch under $15). (Recommended)
The Clock
When I bought the RV, it came with a clock on the wall, which I rather liked. Cheap, battery-operated, kept good time, a convenience. Then one night, in the quiet of a campground, falling asleep, I became aware that the clock ticked so loudly that it dominated everything — it ruined the camping experience with its loud TICK, TICK, TICK... I couldn't fall asleep. Enraged, I arose in the dark, ripped the clock off the wall, felt around in its innards and pulled its battery out. Ahhh... blissful silence, and sleep. (Eliminating ugly man-made sounds is quite satisfying, actually.)
The Three-Way Continental Divide
At a rest stop I read this thoughtful inscription:
A drop of water falling here in the Giants Range, a rare three-way continental divide, may flow north into icy Hudson Bay, east into the Atlantic Ocean, or south into the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
From the north slope of these very old granite ridges, streams flow into the Red River of the North, through Lake Winnipeg, and into Hudson Bay in northern Canada.
Creeks and rivers on the south slope flow into the St. Louis River, enter Lake Superior at Duluth, and eventually reach the north Atlantic through the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence River.
On a western spur of the Giants Range the great watershed of the immense Mississippi River system gathers the flow from a maze of streams and swamps as the legendary river begins its winding course from Lake Itasca to the Gulf of Mexico, more than 2500 miles away.
Lying as it does near the center of the North American Continent, Minnesota marks the transition between eastern woodlands and westgern prairies and between northern coniferous forests and rich grain-growing lands of the mid-nation. It is a land of dramatic differences, tied to the world through three great waterways that originate in these rocks and streams.
A drop of water falling here in the Giants Range, a rare three-way continental divide, may flow north into icy Hudson Bay, east into the Atlantic Ocean, or south into the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
From the north slope of these very old granite ridges, streams flow into the Red River of the North, through Lake Winnipeg, and into Hudson Bay in northern Canada.
Creeks and rivers on the south slope flow into the St. Louis River, enter Lake Superior at Duluth, and eventually reach the north Atlantic through the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence River.
On a western spur of the Giants Range the great watershed of the immense Mississippi River system gathers the flow from a maze of streams and swamps as the legendary river begins its winding course from Lake Itasca to the Gulf of Mexico, more than 2500 miles away.
Lying as it does near the center of the North American Continent, Minnesota marks the transition between eastern woodlands and westgern prairies and between northern coniferous forests and rich grain-growing lands of the mid-nation. It is a land of dramatic differences, tied to the world through three great waterways that originate in these rocks and streams.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Hello? Hello?
Hey, out there! Is anyone reading this blog? No Comments, so I guess not. Unless I see some Comments, I'll assume nobody's reading, and I'll quit writing.
How to leave a Comment: At the bottom of each post is the line "Posted by Meadowlark..." Click on the word comments at the end of that line. Then you'll need to log in, using your Google user name and password. (And if all this is too much, just send me an email.) Thanks.
How to leave a Comment: At the bottom of each post is the line "Posted by Meadowlark..." Click on the word comments at the end of that line. Then you'll need to log in, using your Google user name and password. (And if all this is too much, just send me an email.) Thanks.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Where's my....?
Frustration built these first days on the road because I couldn't find anything. To understand the situation, consider my method of packing. It was actually part of my method of vacating the apartment, which involved triage of my supplies and possessions into boxes for (a) the Dumpster, (b) the local thrift shop, (c) giving away, (d) storage, or (e) taking along in the RV. So the stuff for the RV got thrown into boxes without any organization whatever, and looking for something I needed meant searching through all the boxes in the RV until I found it, assuming I could find it among all the other stuff. But, I assured myself, things will eventually get sorted out. It's wholistic. It's all an organic part of the Adventure. It thumbs its nose at the tight-sphincter rules at the apartment complex Ive escaped from.
Here's an example. The first day out, I couldn't find a belt. Now, a belt in an important item — without it, my pants wouldn't stay up. I tried grabbing the waist at the side and hoisting it, but that proved uncomfortable, not to mention it must have looked weird. Then I found a better approach, in which I placed the back of one hand in the small of my back, as if I were trying to look suave. That worked better, but even that was too much, so I took a length of nylon camping cord and used that as a makeshift belt... worked fine! A few days later I found a belt and the crisis was over, but it wasn't until two weeks into the trip that I discovered the other belts I'd brought.
Here's an example. The first day out, I couldn't find a belt. Now, a belt in an important item — without it, my pants wouldn't stay up. I tried grabbing the waist at the side and hoisting it, but that proved uncomfortable, not to mention it must have looked weird. Then I found a better approach, in which I placed the back of one hand in the small of my back, as if I were trying to look suave. That worked better, but even that was too much, so I took a length of nylon camping cord and used that as a makeshift belt... worked fine! A few days later I found a belt and the crisis was over, but it wasn't until two weeks into the trip that I discovered the other belts I'd brought.
The Adventure Has Begun
Lift Off!
Saturday was crazy, moving my furniture out of the apartment into the neighbor's, loading the last stuff into the RV, cleaning my apartment, returning the keys, then, finally, in the afternoon, getting in the RV with Menominee and leaving the apartment complex for the last time. We had met our deadline — Saturday, June 30, the last day of the month, the last day to be out of the apartment.
A couple of errands and we were on the road! Drove aimlessly on back roads, generally northward, to get out of the city heat. Crossed the Mississippi at Anoka, made it to Cambridge by early evening, and decided to stop there. A kindly manager at Cub Foods gave permission to stay overnight in parking lot. Whew! Time to start decompressing!
Next day, it was still hot and humid as we drove northward. By the time we got to Jay Cook State Park, just short of Duluth, it had cooled off, so we spent the night there. Gosh, it got cold! In the middle of the night I had to find a warm blanket and huddled under it the rest of the night. It occurs to me that the coldest July 4th in the continental U.S. just might be in Duluth.
Continuing northward, Hibbing beckoned, so we slanted over in that direction. By the time we got there, I was really hungry for lunch, so we stopped at the Hibbing Visitor's Center. There, a nice little white-haired lady was generally cheerful as she resisted my attempts to extract a recommendation of a restaurant for lunch, directions to it, and the location of a Caribou Coffee shop. But we finally found Zimmie's and had a delicious lunch there. (Recommended.) Turned out that Caribou Coffee was on the highway outside town near the new Lowe's and Walmart, a spot the Visitor's Bureau lady probably had never visitied. Bought dessert and got the first free Wi-Fi Hotspot of the adventure! Whoo hoo!
Potica
In Hibbing they make potica. It has nothing to do with politics or poetry, and is pronounced po-TEE-sah. It's a "traditional European-style sweet bread," deliciously sweet and tasty, and I enjoyed it for breakfast and dessert. You can walk into a Hibbing grocery and find potica in the freezer, $9.95 for a pound, made by Sunrise Bakery. In the Twin Cities, you might be able to find it at a specialty shop.
Ely
We had had no difficulty leaving any of the places we stayed until we got to Ely, which turned out to be so nice that we spent three nights there. Clean, dry air, nice temperatures, low humidity, pines all around... ahhh! Many of the people there looked outdoorsy, tanned, fit, relaxed, happy. The high point was an Independence Day parade through town, featuring the town fire engine and a squad of Girl Scouts portaging canoes. The International Wolf Center was interesting too. Returned again and again to the Front Porch Coffee Shop and Internet Cafe (Recommended) for free Wi-Fi (with a purchase). Stayed in Fall Lake campground (Recommended) in the National Forest a few miles east of town, where Menominee loved to go outdoors on her leash and explore the campsite. It was here, in campsite 40, that she stalked and chased her first National Forest brown squirrel. A scooter would have been wonderful here, riding the few miles from the campground to Ely.
Saturday was crazy, moving my furniture out of the apartment into the neighbor's, loading the last stuff into the RV, cleaning my apartment, returning the keys, then, finally, in the afternoon, getting in the RV with Menominee and leaving the apartment complex for the last time. We had met our deadline — Saturday, June 30, the last day of the month, the last day to be out of the apartment.
A couple of errands and we were on the road! Drove aimlessly on back roads, generally northward, to get out of the city heat. Crossed the Mississippi at Anoka, made it to Cambridge by early evening, and decided to stop there. A kindly manager at Cub Foods gave permission to stay overnight in parking lot. Whew! Time to start decompressing!
Next day, it was still hot and humid as we drove northward. By the time we got to Jay Cook State Park, just short of Duluth, it had cooled off, so we spent the night there. Gosh, it got cold! In the middle of the night I had to find a warm blanket and huddled under it the rest of the night. It occurs to me that the coldest July 4th in the continental U.S. just might be in Duluth.
Continuing northward, Hibbing beckoned, so we slanted over in that direction. By the time we got there, I was really hungry for lunch, so we stopped at the Hibbing Visitor's Center. There, a nice little white-haired lady was generally cheerful as she resisted my attempts to extract a recommendation of a restaurant for lunch, directions to it, and the location of a Caribou Coffee shop. But we finally found Zimmie's and had a delicious lunch there. (Recommended.) Turned out that Caribou Coffee was on the highway outside town near the new Lowe's and Walmart, a spot the Visitor's Bureau lady probably had never visitied. Bought dessert and got the first free Wi-Fi Hotspot of the adventure! Whoo hoo!
Potica
In Hibbing they make potica. It has nothing to do with politics or poetry, and is pronounced po-TEE-sah. It's a "traditional European-style sweet bread," deliciously sweet and tasty, and I enjoyed it for breakfast and dessert. You can walk into a Hibbing grocery and find potica in the freezer, $9.95 for a pound, made by Sunrise Bakery. In the Twin Cities, you might be able to find it at a specialty shop.
Ely
We had had no difficulty leaving any of the places we stayed until we got to Ely, which turned out to be so nice that we spent three nights there. Clean, dry air, nice temperatures, low humidity, pines all around... ahhh! Many of the people there looked outdoorsy, tanned, fit, relaxed, happy. The high point was an Independence Day parade through town, featuring the town fire engine and a squad of Girl Scouts portaging canoes. The International Wolf Center was interesting too. Returned again and again to the Front Porch Coffee Shop and Internet Cafe (Recommended) for free Wi-Fi (with a purchase). Stayed in Fall Lake campground (Recommended) in the National Forest a few miles east of town, where Menominee loved to go outdoors on her leash and explore the campsite. It was here, in campsite 40, that she stalked and chased her first National Forest brown squirrel. A scooter would have been wonderful here, riding the few miles from the campground to Ely.
Rustling
One afternoon, as I walked up to my RV parked on the street, I heard an odd noise coming from it — a brief rustling sound. Curious, I walked around the RV, listening. As I came round the back to the passenger side, I heard it again. I opened an access panel for the fridge and found a lot of dry leaves. Hmmm. Some kind of nest? I cleaned the leaves out and climbed the ladder up to the roof to check the roof vent. The rustler had chewed a hole through the plastic big enough to enter! So I went to the hardware store for some steel mesh and screwed that over the whole vent. Let's see the rustler chew through that! (Makes me glad I have a really good squirrel hunter along with me.)
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