The rest of southern Idaho, Wyoming, South Dakota, and part of Minnesota lay in front of me. One more night in a hotel – somewhere western South Dakota, two more days of driving.
A significant part of the remaining was high desert and shrubland.
I really did not meet anymore characters along the way. Outside of Idaho Falls, I turned off the interstate and took US Highway 20. Near Sugar City, it was a right Idaho 33 – heading east.
The altitude as I approached the Tetons began to creep up.
Forest fires near Jackson Hole, Wyoming, made the air smell like the old days at the cabin my family used to caretake.
The valley the Snake River flows through and the greater National Park of Grand Teton was teaming with traffic and tourists. Some, quickly pulling over to get a photo of an elk or snow covered peak of Grand Teton. The elevation, the way that the Snake River bisects the region, even the peaks of the mountain struck me as being like that of another park I had visited a few years ago: Tombstone Territorial Park in Yukon Territory. Tombstone, though, was Alpine and tundra terrain without another human for miles and miles and quite cold – snow was still on the ground. Grand Teton National Park was quite warm, teaming with people, and hazy from the nearby forest fires.
Out of the mountains and back into high desert and shrubland. The remainder of Wyoming was mostly two lane highway – much like Montana 200.
A stopover in Sturgis, South Dakota for the night, and I was home early evening the next day.
Now and again, I go venturing. Some times by train, sometimes by plane, but more often, automobile. West coast, east coast, the Bible belt, back to the Iron Range, northern Europe, Canada, Japan or Vietnam. I tacitly wander. It feels good to have a place to call home, though. But, for short periods of time – I like to wander. As a kid, our family would drive from Hibbing, Minnesota, to Longmont or Boulder, Colorado, now and again. My mother’s sister and her family lived there. The drive seemed impossibly long. Spread-out over two days, we would spend the night in Nebraska – Grand Island or North Platte. My father was, and often still is, impossibly impatient. In the 1980s, with the National Maximum Speed Law (NMSL) still in place, being in a vehicle as my father pushed it – a Chrysler minivan or Ford Bronco II – up past 70 mile per hour seemed fun and exciting. He was beyond irritated when he was pulled over for speeding.
Traveling, as a child, with the exception of a circle tour around Lake Superior in the early 1990s, always involved traveling to family. In 1998, a month before my 18th birthday, my mother’s brother, Mike, needed to get a 1997 Toyota Camry from Hibbing to Portland, Oregon. The car had been my grandfather’s. It was still traveling with family, but it felt different. One way or another, I convinced my mother that I should be allowed to go with Mike. I’d be helping by being able to drive. To add to the how the hell did I manage that category, I secured a one way ticket back to Minnesota from Portland. I’m not certain who actually paid for the ticket.
Using MapQuest to plot our route, we printed off our travel plans, packed a bit of food and headed west. Hibbing to Glendive, Montana, is about a nine hour drive. No cellphone – we used pay phones along the way if needed or a phone card. Mike and I switched off driving midway in North Dakota. For a seventeen year old who had never done any long-haul drives before, four and half hours behind the wheel was tough. Glendive to Wallace, Idaho (where there is a Bordello Museum and a silver nugget “as big as a steering wheel”). Similarly, we switched driving midway. From Wallace, thru the the Columbia River Gorge into Portland.
Four years earlier, NMSL had been fully repealed. A boon for states’ rights proponents. Montana, shortly there after, enacted a during-daylight speed limit of “Reasonable and Prudent” (little did I know that “Reasonable and Prudent” would be struck down later that year by the Montana Supreme Court for being “unconstitutionally vague”). A seventeen year old me, no parents, and an uncle with a known wild streak riding shotgun — hell yes, I was going to see what that Camry could do on the open roads of Big Sky country. I nearly panicked when I passed a Montana highway patrol. He was clipping along at 90 miles per hour; I was doing 105. He did not care, 105 must have been Reasonable and Prudent enough for him. On this trip, I saw an ocean for the first time in my life. The waves and tide around Haystack Rock at Cannon Beach. Seattle with Pike’s Place Market, the Monorail, and the Space Needle. It was a cornucopia of things-Pacific Northwest.
No phone, no pool, no pets, I ain’t got no cigarettes
Two years later, my sister had just finished her undergraduate academic career, and would be starting her doctoral academic career in the fall. She wanted a road trip. Replace wild-streak-uncle with high-energy sister, and replace 1997 Camry with a 1998 Dodge Stratus (“forest green” no less), and needing to drive back to Minnesota instead of flying – the trip was exactly the same, just different. Even with “Reasonable and Prudent” no longer in play, we still drove fast. Meghann, tells the story of slowly waking up from napping in the passenger seat, having the sensation that we were “moving quickly,” realizing that I had a cassette tape in the tape deck – playing Roger Miller’s “King of the Road” – in her version of the story, I’m singing along with the music; she glanced at the speedometer – 100 – and calmly asked me, “Are we going 100 miles per hour?” Putting on a thick layer of bullshit and likely channeling our late grandfather, Charlie, I quickly dismissed the question with, “No, no, it must be the angle that you’re looking at the speedometer.”
Wallace, Idaho, the Columbia River Gorge, Seattle – Pike’s Place Market and the Space Needle – all the places that Mike and I had ventured – Meghann and I were now seeing these same places. Speeding through Montana on the way back to the Midwest, we passed through clouds of birds with the Stratus. Stopping in Fargo to drop Meghann off at her apartment also afforded a trip through a car wash to remove bird bits.
Between the time Meghann and I ventured out to the west coast and the near present, there was plenty of travel. Melissa and I drove several times to New Hampshire and the East Coast when my sister was residing there. A drive to North Carolina over a long weekend to pickup a dog. Train trips to both coasts – Melissa was able to see Cannon Beach and Haystack Rock in person. And of course, the somewhat epic trip that Andy B. and I took to the Arctic Circle (or Andy’s version). That trip took a similar path as previous westward trajectories but took a hard right in Bozeman, Montana and nearly 2,500 miles to the northwest into Canada.
Aside from driving up to the Iron Range to visit my parents and work on things on the familial land, road trips have been sparse since the Canadian & North Carolinian venturing. In April, I made the drive from New Bern to Chapel Hill, NC (and back) – but this had a similar distance and time to that of the drive from St. Paul to the Iron Range.
Earlier in 2016, word from Andy B. (now living outside Seattle) was he and his long time girlfriend were going to be getting married. I looked at plane tickets – it would have been the sensible thing to do, but that perennial itch to drive somewhere crept into my consciousness. Maybe I should drive solo to Seattle? I started to look at routes. I will reiterate that the sensible thing to do would have been fly, spend nearly six days in the Seattle/Portland area and split the remaining single-day’s amount of time for sensible, efficient air travel.
I did not do that.
I set my sights on Great Falls, Montana for the first night, and Federal Way, Washington (just outside Seattle, where the wedding would take place) the next day. I left St. Paul at 4:00am on a Thursday. The first four hours to Fargo, North Dakota, seemed to go quick enough. SiriusXM in the car, ample music on my iPhone. Entertainment options were covered. No using MapQuest this time, either. I believe I had at least three GPS enabled devices with me. Jamestown, Bismarck, Dickinson, a stop near Belfield and Medora at Theodore Roosevelt National Park and its Painted Canyon.
Heading west, you gain an hour for each new time zone. Great Falls, like the rest of Montana, is in Mountain Time. I rolled into Great Falls around 8:30pm local time. Getting to Great Falls involved taking Montana Highway 200 for 350 miles, starting from Glendive. Two lanes stretching out in front of you, just a ribbon of road dropping off the horizon miles ahead of you. This road reminded me of the Dempster Highway in Yukon. A lonely strip of road, few if any roads that crossed it. Very few other vehicles. Unlike the Dempster, there were a few towns along the road. Circle and Lewistown. Little towns that reminded me of the Iron Range. Pickup trucks, four-wheelers and abandoned gas stations. Great Falls had the feeling of Jacksonville, North Carolina. A military town – Malmstrom Air Force Base to the east. Jacked up trucks with out of state license plates, pawn, tobacco and vape shops. It was still a nice little city. There was a festival of some kind going on in Broadwater Bay Park.
Up and out and on the road by 6:30am the following day. Great Falls was waking up. Traffic was light. Instead of the predominate direction – west – that I had been taking, it would be south for a short time. Helena, the state capitol of Montana was my first stop of the day. I needed to pickup Andy & Jen a card – something from Montana, as Montana is where they both went for their undergraduate degrees (in Bozeman, but I was not headed through that city) as well as that’s where they met each other.
The distance of Hibbing to Duluth, Great Falls to Helena is about an hour and twenty minutes. It was still early, but prior to my departure, I had looked up gift shops in Helena. General Mercantile. It markets itself as a Gift Emporium, Espresso Bar & Tea Room. It opens at 8:00am on weekdays. It fit the bill for me. I perused the many shelves of chotskies and eventually found my way back to the cards. I picked out a nice card, printed in Missoula, with a print of Monte Dolack’s “Mirage” on the front side. An Americano from the espresso bar for me, a card for to-be-weds, and I was on the road once again. Helena and part of the city that General Mercantile was located in, felt sort of like a Minnesota river town. A larger version of Cannon Falls, Hastings, or even Lanesboro. Onto the Bitterroot Mountains of western Montana and Idaho.
The panhandle of Idaho is just mountains. The interstate is a series of curves, inclines and declivities. The exit for Wallace zipped by, as did Kellogg and Smelterville, Coeur d’Alene with the lake that shares the same name. Post Falls where the northern end of Lake Coeur d’Alene drains into the Spokane River.
Comparing eastern Washington and the part west of the Cascades is a juxtaposition of both climate and way of life. Eastern Washington could only be more different if they decided drive on the left side of the road and go full-metric. But, they will not. Eastern Washington is ranch land with near desert conditions. The politics of the region fit more with that of the panhandle of Idaho than that of the western part of the state. West of Spokane, and you will find vast, open stretches of country and road. Along the sides of the, you will see hay bales stacked high – covered with tarps. I passed numerous Trump for President signs, as well.
About eights hours from Great Falls by way of Helena, the landscape starts to change over from browns and tans of the rain shadow of the Cascades into the greener foothills and slopes of the Cascades. Thru Snoqualmie Pass, and the interstate widens out to three lanes then four lanes heading west.
Onto Washington Highway 18 near Snoqualmie, WA, heading southwest to Federal Way. Melissa had called me earlier in the day to say that the hotel in Federal Way that I would be staying at had called and informed her that they had upgraded my room to a king suite; I guessed they needed my original room for a block of rooms for large grouping of people.
I checked into the hotel and dragged my camera equipment, backpack + laptop, food cooler, and suitcase up to my room. A quick shower, a change of cloths – I had been wearing the same thing for the past two days – and I was off to the rehearsal dinner in Issaquah, Washington.
The highlight of the evening, aside from seeing Andy’s parents (who no longer live in Hibbing, but instead, live in South Carolina) and watching people play Kubb, was watching Jen & Andy saw off a log with a two person saw. It was symbolic of what a marriage will be – two people, working in tandem, trying to tackle life’s challenges. Two days, 1,700 miles of road, driven solo, and I had made it to my destination. The wedding would be the next day, in the evening, at the Pacific Bonsai Museum.
Five years ago, around this time of year, my friend Andy and I ventured up the north shore of Lake Superior. Andy is the fellow that I ventured and adventured with, to the Canadian arctic. In the time since my first snowshoeing of Judge C.R. Magney State Park and then the arctic wandering with Andy, we both have physically moved. Melissa and I are now in the metro region of Minnesota and we have been here for what is now approaching four years. Andy now lives near Seattle and has moved a few times — each time more westward — in the in-between time.
I have stayed in contact with Andy since the arctic undertaking; I last visited him on a pass-thru Seattle on the way to Tokyo. He has since moved from his apartment in Kent, Washington, to a more permanent place: he and his girlfriend bought a house in Puyallup. Needless to say, my past compatriot for wanderings in North America is no longer readily available.
Melissa is not one to green-light my wanderings by my lone self. She much prefers that I wander and adventure with a willing associate. She is not available for venturing, however. She has been spending nearly all of her time away at a friend’s kennel in southern Minnesota raising her first litter of basset hounds. She has been home to Saint Paul for only three days in the last month.
It was a bit of a whim and bit of a wanting to get back to Duluth and North Shore that I thought of snowshoeing to the Devil’s Kettle once again. A friend from the office, who is somewhat new to Minnesota, seemed keen to the idea of snowshoeing. He and I share similar interests – chickens, bees and gardening. We also happened to have the same first name: Alex. It was an easy sell, and we picked a weekend.
From St. Paul to Grand Marais, and then on to Judge Magney State Park, is just shy of a five hour drive. After a stop in Duluth at Duluth Grill for breakfast, we continued up the shore. Alex had been up to the Iron Range with me in fall of 2015, but he had never been up the shore of Lake Superior. He liked it – having lived in Boston and Vermont prior to moving to Minnesota, he was missing hilly landscapes.
Judge Magney park is about fifteen to twenty minutes up the shore from Grand Marais; we made a stop in Grand Marais for snacks and bottled water. A swing thru the Coast Guard Lighthouse parking lot where the sound of ice crushing against the breakwall was the dominate feature. A collective effort on our parts, we pushed an enormous ice hunk back into the harbor, had a good laugh and were on way to the park.
The park was how I remembered it, with the exception of the road being completely plowed back to the parking area this time.
I had read the air temperature reading in the car several times on the drive to the park from Grand Marais, but it did not register: 42° F. Very warm for January, very for January in this park of Minnesota. I left my outer jacket in the car and opted for just a heavy sweatshirt.
With camera, tripod, snacks and water in my backpack, we strapped on snowshoes and began the trip in. It’s about a mile hike back to the Devil’s Kettle. It’s nearly all up hill, until you get to the Upper Falls, at which it is nearly all down a very steep set of wooden stairs.
It was a fantastic day for snowshoeing and hiking. Perfect weather, perfect temperature, and only a few people on the trail.
Even though we snowshoed in to the falls and to the Devil’s Kettle, which was nearly completely frozen over with ice, we ended up carrying the snowshoes on the way out. The above freezing temperature meant the snow had started to melt and collapse a bit. Besides, the hike out was all down hill.