Across the Prairies to the Hi-Line

Day 5, July 4^th Independence Day

Distance travelled 610kms

Wildlife spotted:  many, many stuffed animals at the Museum of the Great Prairies, Rugby, North Dakota

We had promised ourselves a lie-in and an easy day, but were woken early at Turtle River by thunder and one of my storm warning headaches, so we broke camp and packed the car to avoid getting everything soaked yet again.

Just as we sat into the car, enormous warm rain drops began to fell so we decided the best thing to do was head west.

I ‘m so used to going west now, I don’t know how I’m going to transition to going east.

Soon we were on the prairie proper.  Long, long fields of rape seed and wheat stretched out into infinity.  The odd grain elevator or house broke the monotony of the skyline.  Above us, the sky was so huge that we could see the edges of the storm chasing us.  The dark, almost black clouds trimmed in gold.  The light filtered down onto the swamp grass along the highway and gave it an odd yellowish wash.

The highway is twinned here and the speed limit is sensible, so we hummed along.  Little towns appeared every now and then and demanded that we slow down and inspect.  Even though nobody is walking around.  Petersburg.  Michigan.  Lakota.  Each one a straggle along the highway, with a Main St at right angles, and maybe a third street to create some depth.

What must it be like to grow up in one of these towns?

We stopped in Rugby.  Named after its English predecessor by a shareholder in the North Pacific Railway company that is its raison d’etre, it boasts the geographical centre of the continent of North America.

Its prosperity was marked by the fact that it had a business district, stretched along each side of the highway.

We fetched up to the Museum of the Prairies, which was started sometime in the sixties.  It was a vast collection of the bits and pieces of everyday life on a prairie farm, sorted into a fairly decent sort of logic throughout a collection of old buildings from the region.  A room full of sewing machines.  A room full of guns.  Of dolls.  Of wedding dresses.  An old caboose.  A cookhouse.  A fully rendered log home from the 1880s.  Two huge buildings full of Studebakers, and Model Ts, and Oldsmobiles.  Bearskin coats and wolfskin coats, and horse hair coats, and bison robes and rabbit furs.  A barn full of farrier tools. 

When I asked the attendant, she said everyone in the region had cleared out their attic for the museum.

I guess you don’t throw out much when you’re homesteading.

It’s a marvellous record of how a hardy, sturdy people, mostly Scandinavian, hewed a living out of this place.

The room full of animal heads was very sad though.  Bison, moose, sheep, goat, deer, wolf, bobcat..... Not many left of any of them. 

We moved on through the farmland.  Acres and acres of rape, interspersed with grains.  On and on and on it went.  The road was so straight that we commented on a bend.  The towns got a little grubbier.  Quieter.  No parades in any of them.  The odd flag.  But mostly very quiet.

Towards Minot, it began to rise a little, very slowly, but it never went down again.  We cruised through that town looking for lunch, but probably due to the day that was in it, there wasn’t much happening on the chow front.  Either that or Norwegian Americans don’t eat out.

We decided to head over to Willeston, on the Montana border.  After Minot, the tillage pretty much ended and although the country was still beautiful, it was left much to its own devices.  Wildflowers were in bloom, all yellow and blue and white, and there was an odd white tail deer around.  It was all very lush, but you could see the sandy earth underneath and now it was rising in mounds around us, getting bigger, although still soft and rounded. 

We saw an oil derrick.  Then another.  Then we were deep in oil country.  Derricks everywhere, bobbing their robotic heads up and down as if to some invisible alien overlord.  Trucks hurtling around the roads, with large oil tankers on the back.  Work camps everywhere. RVs everywhere. 

We have driven across four states in the last two days and we did not see one house being built.  Not one.  When we got to Willeston, it was crawling with people, building sites, pickup trucks, and realtors.

Just like Fort McMurray, Himself said. 

I hope they know what they’re doing.

And I’m glad I’ve seen the northern Dakotas before it’s too late.

We got the hell out of there and drove into Montana.

About ten miles in the craziness stopped again, and it was just us and the road and the sky and the land.

The trees gave up pretending they had any business in the landscape, and so did the farms.  What houses there were got smaller and less tidy, but most of them had some palominos or painteds running along a ridge.

A butte rose up and ran south, below the train track, parallel to the road on the southward side. 

A hawk soared above us looking for field mice.

We stopped on a hill and got out of the car and looked at the western horizon.  It seemed from the length of road ribboning out ahead of us that it was a long ways to go yet.

The wind danced in my hair and sang in my ear.

From the Storm to Turtle Lake

Day 4. July 3^rd

Distance travelled 540kms

Wildlife spotted:  either there is a conspiracy afoot, or  there are no critters left on this continent.

We learned our lesson from the previous night and headed straight through Duluth next day and onto Gerry’s Army and Navy Store in Grand Rapids Minnesota.  Along the way we noticed some trees were down.

Ooh, yah, said Sue as she showed us the tarpaulin section of the store.  Down by the guns.  Big storm here last night.  We weren’t expecting it, nooo.  Lotsa trees down alright.

We were tenting, I said modestly.

Ooh my!  My son did that once, just in his dad’s yard, mind, and his tent it was a big pretzel then next day.  Sue just about doubled over in laughter at the thought.

We got two tarps, just to be sure, and some more tent pegs.   And a mallet.

We continued on through the Minnesota lake country.  The Mississippi river rises in Itasca forest and meanders through Cass Lake and Big Winnie before turning south towards St. Paul.  Beautiful country, rolling hills and farmland, with fat lazy cattle and acres of hay and clover.

It was carnage.  Power lines down.  Trees down everywhere.  Cops out in force with chainsaws.

I offered up a prayer to the Great Bear Spirit for keeping us safe.

After a quick stop in Bemidji, nestled in a crook of Old Man River the land started to rise in a serious of long, slow hills.  Huge fields spread out in a patchwork of grass, soy and vegetables.  The trees were pushed to one side, guarding perimeters and farmhouses.  We were almost at the Great Plains ahead of us, and to our north, Ontario has finally given way to Manitoba.

By Fosston, we could see the dark loam that marks the Red River valley.  A few more miles and we drove through Grand Forks and into the West.  The Wild West of our imaginations. 

Although it was after six, it was a stifling 34 degrees, so we pulled into the only wooded area we could see and stayed at the Turtle River State Forest.  This one had no bears, hot showers, and a dozen college kids out for a 4^th July drinkathon in the next site.  I didn’t care. I was safe.  I was clean.  I was asleep in no time.

Provinces travelled:  Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Quebec, and Ontario

States visited: Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and North Dakota

From the Soo to the Storm

Day 3.  July 2^nd.  

Distance travelled 790kms.

Wildlife spotted.  You guessed it.

Up early and off to The Soo.  We got over the bridge to the US border easily, and then got pulled to one side because I had to sign a visa waiver.  A very burly agent asked me loudly for my address in the States.  I’m going camping, I said.  I’m not sure where we’ll be.  I was the only person in the visa centre, so all fourteen heads lifted to watch.

I need an address, he said.  Not smiling, but not frowning either.  Just very calm.

I could feel the panic mounting.  Somewhere in the back of my head there was a faint bell of memory ringing, as I remembered the last time this happened to me. 

I’m going to Montana.  I’ll be in Whitefish?

I need an address.

My panic was rendering me speechless.  The Yaak Valley, I wondered, then thought bad move, that place is full of militia types.

I Need You to Work with Me, Lady.... the not smiling but not frowning was morphing into frowning.

YELLOWSTONE!!!!!!!!!!

That works for me, he said.  He started to type.  You’ve been in the States before?

Oh yes, I said, lots of time.

Then You Know You Need An Address.

So you’re going to Yellowstone, Montana, he typed laboriously as he spoke.

Yes, have you been?

NOOOOOO. 

I shut up.

And you’re with Mr. Leeman?

Yes, he’s my husband.

He gave me a look that was full of the pity he felt for whoever was married to a muppet like me. 

I gave him my best YESSIR smile.

He photographed and finger-printed me twice, just to be on the safe side, then let me through.

I ran to the car and checked the atlas to see if I could actually go to Yellowstone.

It’s in Wyoming.

Go figure.

We drove across northern Michigan.  Lotsa trees.  Lotsa old mining towns.  Iron Mountain.  Iron River.  Iron Lake.  Ironwood.  That kinda thing.  Lots of Ford pickups and Chevs.

It’s possible to see some of the traces of the financial carnage of 2008, the odd section boarded up in the odd, less prosperous towns.  But mostly it was quite prosperous looking.  Florence was a little Victorian jewel nestled by a lake.  Norway had a Viking theme throughout, with a long boat at the edge of town and various red-haired warriors painted wherever a wall presented some promise.  In between the little towns there were lots of deciduous woods, and the smell of lavender was everywhere. 

We skirted the shores of Lake Michigan, and then hauled ourselves around the southern shore of Superior.  Lotsa water.  Like looking at the Mediterranean, no waves to speak of, but no horizon either.  Finally, we fetched up along its shore at Arndale, Wisconsin, and watched the local kids jump off an old wharf right on the main street of the town. It was almost European, a wide park with cyclists and walkers passing the early evening, with a soft breeze coming off the lake to lift my tee-shirt away from the stickiness underneath.  There was no waterside cafe with busy waiters and strong espressos of course, so we ate at a ribs joint full of tall, thin mid-Westerners, couples in matching short and sneaker combos, filling up on the all-you-can-eat Monday broaster chicken.  They must work it off with Nordic skiing in the winter.  Nobody could understand my accent.

A few miles out of town the landscape softened yet again and there were rolling hills and lakes and beautiful woodlands all shimmering greeny-gold under the evening sun.  It was still 33 degrees and we were bone tired, so we pulled into a US State Forest.

For $12 a night you can camp in these places, dotted all over the States.  Many were built by the Citizen Conservation Corps, the CCC army that was put to work during the First Depression. There was a big Bear Country sign on the gate.  We pulled in anyway.

We drove around for a bit, then Himself suggested we park in a spot that I thought was a little close to the garbage cans.  He pointed out there was a guy with local plates and a four wheeler right next to us.  I was too tired to argue.

We set up camp and I wandered over to introduce myself.  Joel was a tall, thin, diffident mid-Westerner.  I explained that I was Irish and therefore afraid of bears and asked what did he think were the chances. 

Scared of bears, huh.  You’re camped kinda near the trash cans if you don’t like bears.

He explained that if there were problem bears there would be a bear trap set up near the garbage and there wasn’t so it was probably all right.

I nodded.  Thinking, a bear is a bear is a goddam bear.

He misunderstood my thinking.

They don’t actually hurt the bears.  They trap them in a big pipe and relocate them.

I did actually know that.  I remember the episode of Yogi Bear where the park ranger put a pie in a bear trap and Yogi got caught in it, even though Boo Boo told him not to risk it.

I went back to Himself and reported on the trash can proximity issue.

Apparently, we were there so that I would see a bear if it were possible. 

We sat in the beautiful, quiet woods and had a glass of wine during the long, slow twilight and as it got dark put everything edible in the car and went to bed.  We were both completely exhausted.

About five minutes later the lightening started. 

Then the wind. 

Then the thunder. 

Then the rain. 

I spent the next seven hours watching the second biggest storm I have ever seen play itself out right over our little tent, which was under a big pine tree.  During the quiet periods between thunder claps, I could hear Himself snore through it all.

About four hours in, I really, really needed to pee.  These are the moments when you hate being a woman.  The thunder box was quite a bit away, and even though the rational part of my brain knew that no sane bear would be out in this storm, I ducked into the trees behind my tent instead.  As  I struggle out of the tent in the wind, I am guessing this will go on my list of exotic ablution incidents. 

I have a list.  It already includes

-        - having to get out of a polar snow suit on a glacier in Peru,

-        - realising I am being watched by about ten people in a moonlit coconut grove in India,

-        encountering an irate raccoon by Tusket Lake.  

So now, I am having a vacation where I have to pee behind a tree in an ear-splitting thunder storm, soaking wet and back-lit by lightening, in a bear-infested wood in northern Wisconsin. 

No, I didn’t see a goddamned bear.

Ottawa to the Soo!

Day two, July 1.
Distance travelled, 840kms
Wildlife spotted:  nothing... hmmm...

Up, showered, left motel early.  Due to the cheapness of the motel there was no coffee, so we were banging on the door of the Tim Horton's at 6am on Canada Day, begging for coffee.  The staff took pity and sold us bagels too.

Driving through the Ottawa Valley, I was again struck by how similar to the southern part of Ireland it is.  Roloing hills with grazing cattle, lots of hedgerows and little farmhouses off the road.  The only difference is that here the hay is already cut, dried and shining golden under the sun.

We got to North Bay by lunchtime, and the gradual change in the landscape became more pronounced.  Lake Nipissing golinted in the distance.  Manitoulin, home of the Great Spirit, was an old emerald sewn onto a bolt of grey-blue silk.

We were headed towards Sudbury and the air smelt as bad as the approach to Saruman's tower.  My lips were dry and my head hurt.  The rock became more pronounced and the trees more fragile, clinging to the earth rather than rooted in it.

There were cars parked along the highway and we couldn't figure out what people were doing on a hot Canada Day -swimming, fishing? - until we saw a family emerge with billy cans of blueberries.

Happy Canada Day - let's celebrate by going into the woods and working our fingers to the bone foraging. 

After a while, the road turned away from Sudbury and towards Lake Huron.  The escarpment receded a little and now and then we caught a glimpse of the lake.  As we drove through the many First Nation reserves along the shore I thought about the Huron people in Quebec, who had originated from here.  After getting their asses kicked by the Iroquois, they followed some crazy French Jesuit all the way to the St. Lawrence river to start a new life.  Sometime in the 1600s I think.  They settled happily along the river, until more French people came and pushed them back into the mountains.

I wonder if the French Jesuit hadn't started the argument with the Iroquois in the first place...

I must read Brian Moore's novel, Blackrobe, again.

By 5pm it was very hot and we were tired.  We lucked out with a great campsite by a lake, in a private site owned by German couple.

Hot food.
Glass of wine
Bed.

Slept through the fireworks, but not the strange noises coming from the RV near us.  Somebody was either having an awesome time with a lady, or an asthma attack.  It was difficult to determine which.

St. Louis Du Ha! Ha! had the last laugh

Day One, June 30th:  Lawrencetown to Rignaud.

Distance 1,343kms

Wildlife spotted:  not a damned thing.  My fifth time through New Brunswick and I still haven’t seen a moose. 

We left Lawrencetown at 6.30am and made good time to the New Brunswick border.  It was grey and misty and the wind farm near the Tantramar marshes looped round and round slowly in the mist. 

We weren’t an hour into New Brunswick when the sun broke through and made the trees shine bright green.  Despite that we agreed it was a very boring province to drive through.  The farmlands along the river valleys are very pretty, but most of the province is an enormous tree farm.    As we drove past Fredericton and up along the St. John river valley, we imagined what it must have been like for the American Loyalists who left farms, towns, and even New York city and moved up here in the 1700s to start again.  Hewing a life out of the forest.

Himself’s ancestor, Daniel Leeman, was a soldier who helped provision the settlers along the river, before he himself settled on Deer Island.  We stopped in to Kings Landing to use the bathroom and say hello to the past, but Tourism NB wanted forty bucks to wander round the farm, so we passed and moved on.  Lotta miles to cover today.

A little while later we passed a large van idling up the highway, blinkers on.  As we passed on the fast lane, we noticed a teenage girl rollerblading up the highway by herself in front of the van.  I still can’t figure out how she roller-blades uphill.  Himself reckons that she’ll have a hard go of Montreal if she hits it at rush hour.

We got past Edmundston and into Quebec by 3pm.  We needed coffee, water, a pee, and some food.  We missed the exit for Cabano and decided to pull into St. Louis du Ha! Ha!  The joke was on us though, the town was in the rural Canadian coma that so many are nowadays, and after a bit of searching we found an alimentaire that sold water and beer but no coffee.  We stocked up on the beer for the campsite later.

Forty minutes later we swerved past Riviere du Loupe and hit the St. Lawrence seaway.  Clouds were coming in fast from the north and  the Pelerin islands were just a haze in the bay.  Beyond them, the Laurentides were layered to create perspective as if by a Flemish landscape master.  We finally got our coffee at an Irving stop and just as we paid there was an almighty clap of thunder and the power went out. 

The storm roared down over us and visibility was reduced to zero except when the lightning flashed.  We finally drove out from under it and stopped for a bbq chicken in St Appollinaire.  Just as we ordered our food, the storm spun round and came at us again.  A fork of lightening hit the restaurant sign, but the power just flickered and held.

Camping didn’t seem to be an option at this stage so we outdrove the storm again (my thoughts were with roller-blade girl), and finally outran it for good at Montreal. 

Through the tunnel and out onto the #25 through the city.  The signs said ‘circulation fluide’.  At 8pm on a Saturday you would expect that, but still it is always a relief to get through the city.  Finally stopped at a cheap motel in Rignaud.  We are less than an hour from Ottawa and my body is vibrating from the car.  The Chinese landlady had no English and didn’t get my French so we did our business in my learner Mandarin. 

Finally, finally we sat outside our motel and opened a beer.  I read the label.  It was in French.  Non-alcoholic beer.   Like I said, the last laugh was on us.