Giving Thanks

November 23, 2011

Can I write travel notes when I don’t feel like I’m traveling anymore? We have been in Oregon now for five days and I feel like I am in one of my homes. We are settling into Charlie’s apartment for three weeks and I keep walking around examining his walls like I am a tourist here. They are endlessly entertaining. He has a quite a collection of quirky prints and postcards and collages. Some of them beautiful, some funny, some curious, all interesting. And then, of course, there are his own huge exploding canvases.

Charlie has a south-facing bay window that looks over the city, but the glass has been rattled so hard by the wind and pelted so hard by the rain since we arrived that we’ve barely been able to see out of the window. Water runs down the streets and gathers gobs of colored leaves. I once saw a sign of sun, lasted maybe two minutes. Still, even in relentless rain it’s a beautiful city. I expect within a few days we’ll become acclimated enough to wade out into the city in the rain and explore. Powell’s book store awaits us.

In the meantime we’ve been enjoying wonderful meals with Charlie and Lori. I’m trying to recover from the Thanksgiving feast they fixed for us today. By 7:00 p.m. we had all changed into our soft pants and were watching Outbreak. After a short break for pumpkin pie, we turned to Labyrinth until Charlie declared he’d seen it a dozen times when he was a kid (was? Isn’t he still?) and he couldn’t watch it one second more. I think it was really a ruse because he was tired and wanted us to go home. An entirely reasonable feeling. Bob suggested I post this very old poem I wrote about Charlie in honor of Thanksgiving. He was about 3 years old at the time.

WHEN CHARLIE EATS HIS LUNCH

When Charlie eats his lunch
you can hear the crunch
for a hundred miles around--
it is the loudest sound.

He bashes the beans
and whacks the peas,
cracks the carrots,
and zaps the toast.
He trashes the taters,
crashes the corn,
slurps the soup,
and burps the beats.
He splashes the squash,
mashes the meat,
chops the chips
and bops the buns.

And when he is done
he cries, for the fun
is over until the next lunch.

With gratitude for every day of this wonderful crazy life we live,
Yvonne (and Bob)

Correction

November 19, 2011

Twilight was not filmed here. The books were set here.

Getting ready for a break

November 19, 2011

We have arrived on the far side of the Olympic Peninsula tonight, a day out of Portland. I am getting ready to stay put for awhile and am very eager to hang out with Charlie and his girlfriend Lori. She has planned a fabulous Thanksgiving dinner for us along with the perfect type of after-Thanksgiving activities, laying around, maybe a movie, and other pleasant things.

We whipped through Seattle, staying just long enough to see two dear young friends, Kate Rainey and Annie Van Avery, and see Annie’s very round and beautiful belly. She’s only about two weeks from delivery and still generously offered us a room in her house. (We were smart enough to stay in a hotel.)

We spent last night in Port Townsend, which we have wanted to visit for years--we always hear it spoken of in such glowing tones by Judy and Steve. Now we understand why. Its main street is on the waterfront and has a wooden boat chandlery. Also lots of boats in the harbor. Our room had a balcony on the water, and in the morning we watched otters and ducks diving about 50 feet out from the shoreline. Ice cream shop, book store, piers…just looks like a great place to hang out in the summer. November not as much. Not bad, but the ice on the boardwalk this morning didn’t make us feel like lingering. Nor did the uber-friendly owner of the Spirit Gallery. All we wanted to do was buy a couple of cards, but we got a twenty-minute lecture on the sorry state of America, all while he clutched my credit card in his right hand. We were a captive audience.

We drove to the westernmost point of the continental US this afternoon—Cape Flattery on the Makah Indian Reservation. The coast is rugged and regal, similar to that of Oregon and northern California.

We stopped in a little backyard fish smoking shop in Neah Bay (still on the reservation). The door was wide open, the television on, but no one answered when we called out. So we knocked on the door of the attached trailer and a teenage boy trundled out. He seemed a bit self-conscious but helpful, and sold us the best smoked salmon we have ever tasted.

Tonight we are in Forks, which capitalizes heavily on the fact that the vampire series, "Twilight," was filmed here. Maybe I can convince myself to see the movies so I can properly appreciate their advertising.

Heeding the advice about changing it up, I will add another of our favorite traveling recipes here. You buy a bag of pumpkin seeds. Put one seed on edge in your mouth and gently bite the sides until they separate. Then ever so gently peel the shell back and pop that luscious little seed into your mouth. It keeps your hands busy for hours while adding very few calories to a trip.

First Nations

November 17, 2011

I awakened this morning thinking about what I had forgotten to include in my blog about First Nations. Perhaps you know this already. Canada treated the natives as badly as did the U.S. Their kids were yanked away to boarding school; the populations decimated by disease. The celebratory feasts around which community life was organized, potlatches, were actually outlawed for the first half of the 20th century. It became legal to hold potlatches again in the 1950s, and the things I have read here suggest that about that time there was a strong move toward reclaiming their heritage. Lots and lots of new artwork, most of it staying pretty true to the old ways of expression. I was drawn to the work of a man named Benjamin Chee Chee (a prairie Indian) who uses the old symbols but with an abstract style. I also found a lovely book by Bill Reid, whose mother was from the Haida tribe on the coast of British Columbia. He made beautiful sculptures and jewelry. His book, The Raven Steals the Light, is a book of Haida myths/stories that are colloquial, engaging and eloquent at the same time.

These photos ares of two the enormous "bowls" for the food that was served at a potlach.

The culture, art and spirit of the First Nations is the part of Vancouver that will stay with me.

Two Worlds

November 16, 2011

We visited two worlds today. We spent the morning in China and the afternoon in the wilds of British Columbia.

The Sun Yat Sen Classical Chinese Garden was built for the World expo here in 1986. It is a feng shui marvel. Everything in it was imported from China and placed for a purpose. The result is a beautiful and harmonious space that bequeaths instant peace upon the visitor. From every perspective it is exquisite. Of course, one cannot escape the fact that these gardens were built for the elite Ming Dynasty scholars, a position open only to men, and so the most pristine and quiet room was saved for the guy. Yin and Yang. Have to take the good with the bad, right?

We spent the afternoon at the University of British Columbia Museum of Anthropology walking among the amazing artifacts and works of art from the eight First Nations tribes along the coast. I couldn't quit taking photos of the totem poles. They are so full of interesting figures: a hunter facing off with a bear; a bird transforming into a human, a very tall grimacing figure holding a face crotch-level between its hands. A well-informed and pleasant docent spent an hour teaching us about the exhibits and just wet our appetites. However, our feet were tired even if our appetites weren’t sated, and so we decided to leave for dinner even before the museum closed.

I found myself fascinated by Dzunukwa, an ogress in Kwakwaka’wakw (it’s really fun to say aloud--try it) mythology. She was a bringer of wealth, but she’s also an ogress—really a witch along the lines of Hansel and Gretel. She steals children and carries them home in her basket to eat. Children were told that the sound of the wind blowing through the cedar trees was the call of Dzunukwa. Wouldn’t that make an interesting picture book? A fascinating retelling of a native story?

In my eternal quest to find objects that will let me bring the experience home with me, I bought several prints by native artists. One of them, by an artist named Chee Chee, is an abstract rendering of geese that has the same feel as the Inuit print called "Our Joy" that Bob brought for me from Hudson's Bay a decade ago. Now we'll just have to buy a house to put it in.

Sacred eggplant and totems

November 15, 2011

Last night we ate dinner at Floata, a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown. Several years ago I went on a trip to Turkey and Greece on a tour called “In Search of the Goddess.” There we ate eggplant fixed in its many guises. It was one of the most sacred and sensual experiences of the trip. Last night I had eggplant fixed in a new way, in a hot pot with shredded pork. And now I know that the goddess lives in China too.

We continued our culinary adventures today. We stumbled across the Pacific School of the Culinary Arts (where Lizzie Flannigan studied, it turns out). They were advertising a three-course lunch for a ridiculously low price. I had the best lobster and crab bisque I have ever eaten.

We walked a million miles or so today. Vancouver is a beautiful, cosmopolitan and multicultural city. Mountains almost down to the seashore, interesting architecture (at least to our untrained eyes), and many languages and restaurants. Lots of First Nations galleries, arts, and crafts here. In Stanley Park, Vancouver’s version of Central Park, we visited a permanent exhibit of totem poles. They are set in a cluster out-of-doors and each has an explanation of the images and cultural history, along with information about the artist who did the carving. There are many, many First Nations here and I really wanted to buy every book of stories available. The foundational figure in one of the totems was a black giantess, whom I took to be one of their goddesses. The artists seem to have a strong sense of and devotion to their culture and history and to carrying their traditions forward into modern versions. The totems become more beautiful when you gain some understanding of what they mean. They are essentially a crest for each tribe.

I love our “seedy” hotel. The staff are so easy and helpful. The young woman at the desk even kissed one of the guests this morning! He was a very old man, I think one who comes for several months each winter and stays here. Lots of variety in the people here, but clearly some long-timers. And then there’s Pat’s Pub downstairs that makes its own brew and has fabulous bar food, like the pulled pork sandwich I had tonight and yam fries. Cozy, and yes, friendly staff. We had interesting discussions about the local Wall Street occupiers with the bartender. Vancouver has its own tent city on the lawn in front of city hall, and it seems to be have become a focus of the municipal elections which are scheduled for the 19th here.

The highlight of the day for Bob, I think, was a small ferry, maybe 20 feet long, essentially a water taxi that we took home from a public market on Grandview Island. It was small and enclosed with plexiglass, so we could see well but we also stayed nice and warm. The only riders were Bob and I and an attractive young woman from Capetown, South Africa. The young taxi driver, who sat in the middle of the boat, tooled along at a leisurely pace and kept up a casual and interesting conversation. Especially interesting, it seemed to us, to the young woman from Africa. We were pretty sure they ended up having dinner together tonight. Here’s to the success of their evening.

November 14, 2011

The Okanagan Valley is a lovely wine-growing region mid-way between Banff and Vancouver. The name derives from the Okanagan people who were here when the first non-native settlers arrived in 1811. It’s become a hot place for wineries, and it reminded us a bit of the Apennines in Italy—the rolling golden hills sometimes with houses poised halfway up. It is this province’s lake district, long thin lakes like New York’s finger lakes. We knocked off driving pretty early, laid around the hotel room, and went out for tempura. This morning I goaded Bob into doing a workout with me before we left for Vancouver.

It was mountainous for the entire drive. Quite stunning, but trying as well. We drove through a lot of snow ,almost white-outs part of the time, and when someone passed us, visibility was reduced to zero for a harrowing minute or two.

“Yvonne, can you see the side of the road?” This in an urgent voice.

“No, I can’t.” This in an icy tone that covered panic.

The highway is a fine four-lane road, but with many long ascents and descents, so we dipped in and out of snowstorms repeatedly as we drove west. In any event, we have arrived in Vancouver and we are excited to be here.

We are in a hotel on the edge of downtown, only a block from one of the biggest Chinatowns in the North American continent, as the tourist literature is fond of saying. And the first thing on our agenda tonight is dinner in Chinatown. The block we’re on looks a bit seedy. As Trip Advisor reviews put it, yeah there are homeless folks and drug addicts and prostitutes on the street, but you’re safe and the hotel is great and the staff super friendly. (It’s true, the staff is wonderful.) We kind of like the edginess. It brings us back to our early carefree days of traveling when everything was an adventure. I hate that I’ve become more jaded now, but I still get that surge of excitement in my gut when we climb into the car in the morning and head down the road not knowing just what to expect next.

…

Back from a walk around town. I have to admit that a different emotion is switched on when I actually walk among the homeless, drug addicts and prostitutes. We are about two blocks from two homeless shelters. At 6:30 p.m. there were crowds on the sidewalks waiting to get in. Some guys pulling big canvas suitcases on wheels. Some sorting through shopping carts. Tough life. It makes me really grateful and appreciative of the folks who are working hard in our town to get more affordable housing.

November 13, 2011

As we left Banff National Park today, the clouds were thick, the snow was falling, and the mountains were only ghosts around us. The clouds lifted as we come down into the valley, and the evergreens that spread up the mountain sides held puffs of snow such that the entire mountain side looked like it was covered with dotted Swiss fabric. We eventually got periods of bright sunshine, so we were able to see the mountains in all their craggy grandeur.

A lot of things are closed to the winter traveler here. We weren’t able to go see Moraine Lake yesterday, which I remember from my visit of 45 years ago as being the most stunningly beautiful place in the world. We were also looking forward to seeing the spiral tunnel as we left the park. It’s a vertical railway tunnel. A retired railroad construction manager told us you can stand above it and see the train enter, and minutes later, while the tail of the train is still visible, you can see the head of the train emerge far below at a right angle to the tail. But the lookout was closed.

The construction manager also remarked on the retreat of the glaciers. He said that he was skeptical when they first started talking about global warming, but in the last few years when he drives the Icefield Parkway (the road that goes north along the spine of Banff National Park to Jasper), he is shocked to see how far the glaciers have retreated.

There are lots of warnings about grizzlies and elk here. Signs tell you to hike in groups and make lots of noise. I guess there are some advantages to traveling in the winter. The photo I posted today shows a highway overpass built for the wildlife. There are fences along the Trans Canada in the park and the animals have to use the overpasses to cross the road.

Today we descend into the Okanagan

Valley, into warmer temperatures and less expensive hotel rates. Already I crave summer again.

Lake Louise

November 12, 2011

I felt disappointed as we drove to Lake Louise today and the clouds settled in. The mountains were more brooding than brilliant, and whole swaths were erased by the clouds.  Ultimately, though, the falling snow made the mountains feel softer, more intimate (if Rockies and intimate isn’t an oxymoron). 

When we arrived at Lake Louise, we parked in the lot and hurried down the path to see the lake.  We had hoped to walk the trail that runs the length of the lake, but it looked like all the trails would be accessible only by skiis, so we resigned ourselves to simply having a look at the lake and return to the car.  BUT THEN we discovered the trail was tamped down by feet and we went ahead for a quick walk—just to the end of the lake and back. BUT THEN the scenery was so beautiful, we decided we’d walk just a bit past the lake as the trail angled up the side of the mountain and we’d turn around after a couple hundred more feet. BUT THEN we had to see what was around the bend.  The trail was so beautiful it just kept pulling us forward and forward, and before we knew it we had hiked up 1100 feet and gone 3 miles in. 

The trip down challenging because the snow was slippery and uneven, and we were, once again, exhausted. Sheer will power pulled us back. That, and hunger. The seafood chowder and French onion soup in the Lake Louis Chateau—an unbelievably elegant building—was an excellent pick-me-up. 

It’s hard to write about the mountains.  Incredibly beautiful vistas.  Gorgeous panoramas. Breathtaking vertical cliffs. Majestic pines covered in snow. Emerald water (where it wasn’t covered by ice and snow). It’s all pretty much a cliché. And it’s all true. We frequently had to stop walking and just breathe in the beauty.

I came across some advice on blogging this morning that warned against writing about the same subject in the same way day after day.  It gets boring, they said. Throw in different angles. So I thought I’d change it up by throwing in a recipe for our favorite traveling food: 

            First you take two pieces of good bread, like Trader Joe’s sprouted rye.  You balance the pieces of bread on your knees.  Then you find a plastic knife and spread almond butter on one piece. Then you pick up the other piece, the one that fell off your  knee, and spread raspberry jam on it.  You quick slap the two pieces of bread together before they fall again.  Then you wipe the knife with a wet one and store it in the little compartment on the inside of your door.  Voila! The best almond butter sandwich ever!

A Day Off the Road

11.11.11   Wow!

We have a very nice hotel in Banff, and the beds are wonderful.  As I nestled into the perfect mattress under the perfect down comforter last night, it felt like my bedroom at home and I wondered, why did I leave it?  I awoke this morning feeling a bit homesick and—for the first time—felt some sadness about letting go of our home.  It’s not there waiting for me anymore.  I questioned myself for a short time.  And then we headed out for a 800-foot hike up Tunnel Mountain, and the second guessing evaporated with the wind gusts. 

We can feel our 60s.  Before leaving, I did my excellent workout designed by Sandra Swami, but I still had to rest at the end of switchbacks, and my hips got pretty achy by the top.  Perhaps no amount of working out can help arthritis. But my quads are good. We were both tuckered afterwards, but Bob is sure our exhaustion was due to the altitude rather than age. Anyway, it was completely worth it. It’s a beautiful hike full of stunning views. And I earned my Greek salad (and maybe even a pizza tonight). 

We are here in low season, and the hotel was incredibly empty last night.  But tonight, Friday, it is suddenly full of energetic people.  I can hardly imagine what it must be like in the high season. The trees are lit and there is Christmas advertising about.  But it feels right, especially as the pines gathered snow in their arms today.  The town has quite an international feel to it, with lots of Australians (one of whom helped me pick out my favorite warm hat I’ve ever owned), Japanese, Chinese, and others whose languages I’m not adept enough to identify.  Lots of French spoken here too.  That I can’t understand, but I can identify it. 

We decided we had the energy to go to the mineral hot springs this afternoon.  Ah, so lovely.  The snow was drifting gently down as we soaked in the toasty water and looked up at the rugged peaks all around us.  The lifeguard watched over us wearing a long down parka. When I asked her if she could get that coat of quickly if need be, she said yes, but she has gone into the pool with it on. 

Looks like we’ll be in this area an extra day.  We’re moving on to Lake Louise tomorrow, but six inches of snow is forecast and poor driving conditions, so we’re leery of heading out across the Rockies.  That’s the charm of unstructured travel. Perhaps we’ll spend the afternoon just hanging out and reading.

Technology's Betrayal

November 10, 2011

We are starting across the wide open plains of Alberta this morning, leaving Medicine Hat and on toward Banff.  No snow left, only vistas of tan land undulating out toward the sky, interrupted by the occasional farmhouse with a tree or two. You can see a long, long way. There is an incredible stark beauty to these plains. 

We discovered a new limit to our technology today. I awoke at 6 a.m., surprisingly ready to get out of bed, and then woke Bob. We were puzzled that no one else seemed to be up and moving around. The motel’s coffee was available at 6:30, so I scurried over to get a cup for Bob and me, only to find everything dark and locked up tight. Could we have crossed into mountain time? We checked our smart phones and our smart computers, both of which said nope, it’s 6:30 a.m. We decided on a second check, googled time zones, and found our phones had lied to us. We were on mountain time. They still think we’re on central time. So I went back to sleep and left poor Bob wide awake.

Speaking of the limits of technology, I’ve been ready to tear out the heart of Verizon, if it only had a heart.  I bought a global roaming plan for the time we’re in Canada, and still keep getting messages from Verizon that I’ve run up megabucks of overtime on my phone. I’ve called repeatedly, and found an amazing lack of knowledge in their staff.  When the last one said to me, “I can only guess that you’ve gone past your limit,” I seethed: Well, your Guess isn’t good enough. I huffed and puffed and yelled—on the inside.  On the outside I said a steely polite Minnesotan “thank you,” and hung up. To be fair, I have to add that I finally found a competent young man named Mo in Seattle who solved the problem (I hope). 

… 

Made it to Banff. Landscape’s been transformed. The mountains are sharp and rugged and the wind is harrowing. Tourist shop after tourist shop in town.  We are considering if we should go to the outdoor hot springs pool tomorrow; would it be pleasant in 40 mph wind gusts? For the moment we are oh-so-happily sitting on the interior balcony of our hotel room eating crackers, baba ganoush, and having a very drinkable glass of wine from British Columbia. We are happy to stay in all evening.   

Tunnels for Storing People

November 9, 2011

I am a bit under the weather today, in both meanings of the word, that is: 1)  my stomach is still misbehaving and 2) it’s bloody cold up here. Under the weather, times two.

Anyway, for the most exciting discovery I’ve made so far on this trip:  juneberries are taken seriously in Saskatchewan.  Juneberries are my favorite berries in the whole world, little  deep purple globes with their own very special flavor.  When I was a kid we’d pick buckets full and make juneberry pies. They grow on tall lanky bushes similar to chokecherries or pincherries. My mouth waters just thinking about them. But no one in the Twin Cities seems to have the least notion of what they are, let alone celebrates them.  So imagine my joy—yes, unmitigated joy—when I discovered that Saskatoon berries are juneberries. The Canadians dry them for snacks, make jelly and chocolates with them. I was asking a woman in a gift shop what these Saskatoon berries were, and I almost squealed when I discovered the truth. (She looked a bit askance at me.) So I am ecstatically munching at this very moment.

Now on to more serious matters.  Perhaps the most interesting thing about Moose Jaw, besides its intriguing name, is the network of tunnels under the city that hid Al Capone, and, more sobering, housed the Chinese immigrants after they had worked on the TransCanada railroad. We took a tour of the tunnels this morning and learned that the Canadians were as cruel to the Chinese laborers as were the Americans.  The "imported labor" lived underground; some were avoiding paying the “head tax” of $500 which was used to discourage Chinese immigration, and others were avoiding the humiliating treatment of living in the community above ground. They lived as indentured servants and were paid 35 cents to work 16-hour days, then returned half of the pay to their “employer” for their room and board, such as it was.  White labor earned twice as much with no deductions for room and board. No medical treatment. Three men to a narrow single bed. The horrors continue.  The woman who led the tour told us we were to participate as actors in this tour, taking the role of the coulees who lived in the tunnels. Then she would periodically go into her role as the wife of the engineer and order us around, sneer at us, yell at us, denigrate us, as, she said, the Chinese were actually treated.  "Get over here you stupid coulee. You're as lazy as the rest of them. You're fortunate you have this job.  You're being paid more than you're worth anyway....."  It’s interesting how one begins to experience the emotions of the role one is assigned even when one is completely aware that it is playacting. The tunnels were originally built to make it easier to maintain the boilers that heated the buildings. The boiler tender could move more easily among buildings checking them, and they soon used the tunnels for moving goods.  And then, finally, for hiding and storing people. Of course, I couldn't help but think of some analogies today, perhaps not quite so egregious, although I imagine there are some who would beg to differ with me.   

We had dinner at the Mad Greek restaurant last night and the lovely young waitress told us there was a tunnel under the house she lived in a couple of blocks from main street and her alley had about six ways out so that, once upon a time, Capone and his men could more easily make escapes. 

Natural hot springs and spas are the other big draw in Moose Jaw. They have a rooftop indoor/outdoor pool heated by the springs which the lovely young waitress highly recommended, even on a cool winters night.  But our old bodies couldn’t muster up the energy for such demanding entertainment at what has become our bedtime.  Maybe next time.

Driving the TransCanadian highway feels a bit like turning the clock back--no services at the intersections, no overpasses in Saskatchewan, and the train tracks cross the highway at grade level. Few signs signaling number of kilometers to the next town. You feel like you're on your own.

And so now we sit back and watch the highway continue to unfurl before us.

Moose Jaw

November 8, 2011

            Road trip! Road trip!             Yay!!!  Clearly I’m feeling better today.

            Hunters were gathered at Dale’s café for breakfast. The two booths of hunters fell silent when we walked in. We felt like we were strange specimens in need of inspection.  Little did they know that I was raised on November deer hunts. After a few minutes they went back to their stories, and I felt totally at home.

            There was a bite in the air and snow spread across the fields as we crossed into Canada this morning. Crossing the border is not like it used to be.  The border guard was very stern with us. She wore a bullet-proof vest under an impeccable uniform. Her questions were clipped without a hint of warmth until she had run our passports (which we had forgotten to sign) through the database. 

 
            Just before we crossed the border we found an interesting batch of stark hills, which we assumed were the turtle hills, but shortly after the crossing, everything returned to such flatness it was enough to make one question whether the world is really round.  (I just discovered it is a myth that Europeans in the time of Columbus believed the earth was flat; the theory of the earth as a sphere was developed in the 6^th century B.C. Did everyone else already know that?)     

          As we sped by mile after mile of white fields and pewter sky, silver grain mills, white wind mills, even a town called White City, we wrapped ourselves in the rich warm sounds of Cantus and I felt perfectly content.  When it became too soothing for the driver, we had to switch to some toe-tapping “Treasures of the Old West”:   Rawhide, Bonanza, Tumbling Tumble Weed, etc.

            Thank God for Bob.  He’s the one who noticed the wolf running through a field off to our right and the bald eagle settling onto the highway median to our left and the brilliant magpie perched atop a frosted tree.

            We stopped for the night in Moose Jaw. We couldn’t pass up a town with a name like that.  It turns out to be a very interesting place.  More on that later.  In the meantime, know that we are walking on snow and ice-crusted sidewalks wearing winter jackets.  And know that this was intentional: we figured this was necessary in order for us to appreciate a winter in California. 

We're off...November 7

I awakened to a cup of steaming coffee from Bob and a gentle kiss on the forehead.  “It’s time for our next adventure, my love,” he whispered tenderly in my ear.  He smiled, the pale light of the cool morning behind him making a perfect invitation for our journey. 

           

            “Thank you my sweetheart,” I purred. 

Oh. That’s right. This is supposed to be non-fiction. Let’s start again.

            Bob bounced out of bed. “It’s 7 o’clock.  Time to get going,” he chirped perkily.  I wearily hauled my still half-sick body out of bed, stepped into my jeans, and creaked down the steps only to find he had misread his watch and it was really only 6 a.m.  But he did have coffee waiting for me. A quick shower, a quick breakfast, and a quick clean-up. “Let’s get a move on,” Bob said, already hauling things out to the car. 

            We had delayed our departure for a day because I picked up a virus. Fortunately, I was able to simply lie still all day Sunday on Mike and Cullen’s very cozy couch in front of a very cozy fire in their very cozy farmhouse. This morning I was still half-mast, so I dozed most of the way through northern Minnesota and North Dakota, awakened only by random exclamations from Bob. “Look how the soil has turned into a rich black!” or, “It’s really gotten to be prairie here!” or “See that snow beside the road” I woke up enough to argue with him about the high piles of something in the distance, which turned out to be dirt (as I had said). Shortly after, we passed Devil’s Lake, which is slowly and inexorably rising. U.S. Highway 2 was being raised about 3 feet in that area. 

            We stopped in Rugby, North Dakota, the “geographic center of the North American continent.”  We figured we better take advantage of the opportunity to get centered.  And from there headed due north toward Canada.  We stopped for the night at Dale’s Truck Stop and Café in Dunseith, ND.  Everything one could want in one place: Two big warm bowls of chili for $8, a convenience store with a newspaper, a lounge with giant bottles of beer, and a room for $31!!!  Yes, it was rudimentary, but it had a good bed and a flat screen television.

            Dunseith is within a few miles of the Turtle Mountain Chippewa tribal reservation. We picked up a Minot newspaper and a tribal newspaper, the Turtle Mountain Star.  Headlines on the Minot editorials were about Obama bullying Alabama on immigration and Obama’s scurrilous policy on pharmaceuticals.  The tribal newspaper’s editorial was headlined, “Were not the 99 percent, we’re the 99.5 percent” and ended with this: “The system we have is little more than legalized corruption.  To not stand up against it is to enable it to continue.  That’s something we cannot afford to do much longer.”   Go Turtle Mountain Star!