Month: August 2022 (Page 1 of 2)

I camped in the same place for the first time. I liked that spot—in a little grove of trees, just off the highway. But off I went, down US-85, toward Theodore Roosevelt’s southern unit. My first stop was the park’s side entrance, where I planned to hike to a petrified forest before the Dakota sun came out in full force. Alas! The road to the trailhead became deeply rutted, beyond what my Corolla could handle. Dejected, I turned back into town.

Medora is a small town trying very mightily to be quaint. Faux-Frontier storefronts line downtown; with the badlands in the background, it’s a cool effect. But that effect is only an affect (see what I did there?). Instead of meeting rugged ranchers at the café, I was served by awkward, pale young men like myself.

To the park! The southern unit is right off the highway. This, and its proximity to Medora, make it much more popular than the northern unit. It’s much more open, with more prairie and fewer badlands. This means the views aren’t as stunning, but the wildlife are more visible, and this part of the park featured multiple prairie dog towns. I would pay a lot of money to put up a development for these guys next to my house. They’re hilarious in their squawking, posing, and scrambling.

It was too hot to hike in the afternoon, and it looks like that’ll hold true for the next week or more in the plains. So I got some driving in, heading south on the Enchanted Highway, a quirky route filled with locally-made, seventy-foot-tall iron sculptures.

Northwest South Dakota is the emptiest place I’ve been so far: so. much. space. I went a solid three minutes with no buildings, cars, or trees in view. I finally made it to the edge of the Black Hills, where the temperature cools by almost ten degrees. I had a solid burger and a good conversation about town scuttlebutt at the local bar. Not a bad way to cap off two weeks on the road.

What a day! I started early, since Teddy Roosevelt National Park is only about five minutes from my campsite. The park is named as an homage to the Trust-Buster’s time spent as a rancher in North Dakota, and aims to capture the prairie as it was before Euro-Americans pushed west. I spent today in the park’s North Unit, and by the time I had traversed the fourteen-mile scenic drive, I had seen herds of buffalo and several bighorn sheep.

I stopped by the ranger station for a talk called ”Perceiving Coyote”. It was led by Ranger Rob, who reminded me of a very intelligent Andy from Twin Peaks. He discussed how coyotes have been different things to different groups of people—emblems of trickery or creation, pests, evil predators, or just another animal. Are any of these perceptions more right than another? Should we try to assign morality to a part of nature? Great questions, Ranger Rob, which stayed on my mind as I headed out into the backcountry in search of a prairie dog town.

I took the Buckhorn Trail into the prairie, wading through waist-deep grasses and clambering through dry creek beds. All around me were the cliffs of the badlands, showing colorful stripes of sandstone, siltstone, mudstone, and clay. Occasional groves of trees peppered the landscape, and insects snapped, crackled, popped, and occasionally torpedoed into my chest. The trail was poorly marked, and I lost it almost immediately. Using only wit, guile, and my map and GPS, I tracked down the prairie dog town and sat down for lunch with my new friends.

Only two miles from the main road, I hardly saw anyone on my hike (I found the trail on the way back). After returning to the car, I drove into nearby Watford City for supplies and rest. I wish I were a better photographer, so that I could show more clearly how different and special this part of the world is, but for now I’m stuck with mostly words. Talk to you tomorrow.

Back into upper Minnesota, which the radio called the Northland, the land of giant American cars and really nice people. Seriously—at least two-thirds of the cars are high-clearance Ford/Chevy/GMC/Dodge units, and the gas station clerk gave me a free coffee. Feeling slightly out of place in the Corolla, I settled in for a leisurely drive through the deciduous forests, along with the coffee and NPR. Folks, remember to keep supporting Ukraine.

I crossed the Mississippi about fifteen miles from its source, still an unassuming stream. I pulled into Moorhead, next-door neighbor to Fargo, and followed the Food Bible once again to a gas station chicken shack. It advertised the chicken as ”broasted,” which I thought was a portmanteau of ”broiled” and ”roasted”; I now know it to be Minnesotan for ”deep fried.” It was… pretty good? Certainly not Food Bible-worthy. This would be a harbinger of things to come. Before leaving town, I bought groceries and stopped to see the wood chipper from the exceptional film Fargo. Frances McDormand plus Steve Buscemi? Instant classic.

I cheated for this next bit, because I was in a bit of a rush to head west. I have a feeling most of my trip will be spent out in the plains, deserts, and mountains, so I hopped on I-94 and gunned it to Bismarck, where I could not find any good restaurants. I resigned myself to an Arby’s reuben and a bag of baby carrots, and started the final leg of today’s drive. The plains are only truly flat for a couple hundred miles, after which they morph into sepia-tinged hills. This is the most rural place I’ve been so far—cars and buildings are one a minute, and towns are little more than a gas station and a reduced speed limit.

Five hundred miles from this morning, I made camp at Little Missouri National Grassland, and it was all worth it.

I couldn’t help but run through the trails and jump. Look at it! Click on it and look closer. My woeful camera skills can’t come close to showing this place’s beauty, but you can still see how the grasslands are full of surprises.

Tomorrow I head to the nearby prairie of Teddy Roosevelt National Park, and hopefully find some prairie dogs!

Goodbye, Upper Peninsula. I’ll miss you!

In Wisconsin, I continued to hug Lake Superior and stopped for gas at Odanah. A handwritten sign on the door said, “Arthur Nelis is no longer welcome at Three Eagles Convenience.” I wish I had asked who Arthur Nelis is.

A quick spin over to Superior, Wisconsin, brought me to the worst part of my trip: errands. I changed the oil in the Corolla and went to the laundromat. Wow, do I hate laundromats. This one was overpriced and undercleaned my clothes—I may have to rewash some of them before they’re wearable. Lunch picked me back up, as I had a cheap and delicious Olive Burger (olive cream cheese and sautéed onions) from Anchor Bar. This is what I’m talking about, Food Bible.

I entered Minnesota, which means it’s time for Prince and Bob Dylan. Where would I spend the night? Somewhere up in lake country. Minnesota may really have ten thousand of them; they lurk around every corner. I looked at the map. North Star Lake, Deer Lake, two different Johnson Lakes. Boring. Then I saw something that took my breath away. Impossible! I raced to the miraculous campsite, which is a cozy spot with a picnic table, and watched the sun set on the pristine shores of—sorry, dignified readers—Big Dick Lake.

I plan to press on through Minnesota into the Dakotas, where I have several activities planned. Things are about to get flat.

I set out today to explore the western section of Pictured Rocks, which took me to Munising, a surprisingly colorful little town right on Lake Superior. I heard my first Southern drawl in West Virginia, and here I heard my first Frances McDormand-in-Fargo accent. The visitor center is right next to Munising Falls, so I walked over and basked while I ate breakfast.

I also visited Miner’s beach, which had the best view yet of the lake. I cannot stress enough how uncrowded this area is; it only sees a fifth as many tourists as Cape Cod does, and I think it’s just as pretty. I puttered around the woods for a while, spotting some deer and a red-breasted nuthatch, then geared up for lunch. The plan was to try both regional specials, smoked whitefish and Cornish pasty, but given the size of the pasty I devoured, no fish would be had. Beef, potatoes, carrots, and rutabaga in pastry—surprisingly good.

I drove to Marquette, which is not home to Marquette University, but does have Northern Michigan University, where I relaxed and hid among the students moving in. I’m now camped on the western side of the Upper Peninsula. Tomorrow, I ride to Wisconsin.

Late post—the Upper Peninsula is not renowned for its cellular service. I figure this’ll happen with increasing frequency once I cross the Mississippi.

Rain in the morning. I cleaned and drove through nondescript western Michigan in a sullen mood. I put on my Hampstead Hawks sweatshirt (three-time defending baseball champs!) and I felt better.

I stopped in Traverse City at the recommendation of my Food Tome and stopped at Don’s Drive-In, which had indoor seating. I ordered an Atomic Burger with nuclear red sauce and a vanilla milkshake that took so much effort to suck through the straw, I may have broken even calorically. Burgers here come with both fries and coleslaw, which is nice. Good food, but hardly one of the best 1,000 roadside restaurants in the country. I’ll keep looking.

Up onto US-31 and across the Mackinac Bridge. This five-mile bridge is the longest suspension bridge in the Western Hemisphere, and the state opens it up every Labor Day to pedestrians.

The rest of the day was an absolute treat. The first fifteen miles of US-2 along the northern shore of Lake Michigan was my favorite piece of driving so far. Low traffic and beautiful, easygoing views alternating between sand dunes and forests. At some points, the water looked almost tropical. I kept driving, west and then north, and arrived at the back end of Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. I have a stamp collection now from all of the National Park sites, so I’m pretty much locked in at this point.

This place is an absolute treasure. I hiked one two-mile trail, without significant exertion, and was rewarded with:

• A stroll alongside a creek where I saw flashes of two large wading birds. They looked like blue herons—if they nest up here, I bet it was them.
• A close-up view of Sable Falls, with two twenty-foot cascades.
• A climb onto a hundred-foot-tall sand dune that had swallowed part of the coastal forest
• A secluded beach on the shore of Lake Superior. I saw very few people during my hike, and I was the only person here for the fifteen minutes I spent admiring the scenery.

Tomorrow, I will continue to explore Pictures Rocks, and I may have to expand my food budget. Every “restaurant” around here advertises their smoked fish, pasties, and beef jerky, so I will of course have to try some of each. 

I saw as many animals this morning driving back to the main road as I did all last week. I slalomed through squirrels, cats, dogs, chickens, and a horse over one two-mile stretch of road. They disappeared once I was on the highway, and I passed through about twenty Hawkins, Indianas as I skirted around the east side of Indianapolis. I’ve been listening to all sorts of podcasts and music as I travel, and for some reason I felt like Woody Guthrie today. The original anti-fascist, according to his guitar. I learned the first two verses of “This Land Is Your Land” in first grade, and certainly did not learn the fourth verse (which has been mostly scrubbed from the Internet too) or any of his more pointed songs. I’ll link the original version here:

I drove through Alexandria, home of the Gaither Vocal Band, and stopped for lunch in Huntington, home of Dan Quayle. Mom and Dad bought me a book on the best small, cheap restaurants in America, and Nick’s Kitchen was highly recommended. I ordered the house special, a pork tenderloin sandwich, and was presented with a fried slab of meat roughly the size of my hat. Add in a slice of pecan pie, and it was the best meal I’ve had so far.

I left town before Quayle rubbed off on me and began the long trip north to Manistee National Forest in Michigan, dodging an absolute shellacking of horse poop from horses and buggies along the way. I’m parked in Paw Paw, MI right now, about to make the last leg of my trip. See you tomorrow.

A light day today. Planning on a long drive up the coast of Michigan tomorrow, so I saved my energy. I started off with a trip to the local Walmart to buy a new toothbrush. While Walmart is a horrifying momument to our current post-capitalist economic hellscape, I did enjoy its restroom and parking lot. The thrill of liminal spaces! Sitting in a parked car or on the toilet, all ready to leave, and reveling in the ability to stay—that’s true freedom.

My activity for the day was a trip to the Lincoln Boyhood National Memorial, which stands where the president lived between ages seven and twenty-one. It’s right next to the town of Santa Claus, which is jockeying with Frog Level, VA for Best Town Name To Date. The town is exactly as you would expect.

I appreciated the Memorial. Not worth vacationing to, but well-paced, and a solid hour’s worth of quality programming. The trails through the old Lincoln farm were filled with life, and I saw a beautiful blue-gray gnatcatcher flittering across a meadow. The log cabin in which he used to live is long gone, but the park has erected a bronze replica of the house’s hearth. Best of all—my hour was free.

I kept north through Indiana, with a quick jog east to pass through French Lick, the home of Larry Bird, at Uncle Dave’s suggestion. (One of my greatest blessings is that I’m on the Dave Zabriskie email chain, which is exponentially more entertaining than this blog.) Some suburban sprawl from Indianapolis, some pretty hardwood forests of oak and hickory. I parked early at a free campsite inside Hoosier National Forest, only to find it trashed. Chip bags, eggshells, cigarette cartons, even bullet casings. I’ll have to get some clean-up supplies for the future. I spent time reading, writing, and practicing the trombone, which must have rang for miles through the trees. I was able to relax for the first extended time on the trip. I’ll make sure to plan more days like this.

Goodbye, Corbin, Kentucky. I won’t miss you.

The two-hour drive to Mammoth Cave National Park felt quick. Maybe it’s because I crossed into the Central time zone and gained an hour along the way. I expected Cave City to be a quiet town, and was quite surprised to discover that it’s a grade-A tourist trap. Lining the road are billboards for half a dozen privately owned caves, gemstone shops, zip lines, horseback riding, outlaw museums, dinosaur replicas, etc., with occasional dashes of cultural insensitivity and blatant copyright infringement. Jellystone is also in Cave City.

I went on two cave tours today. Minimal pictures, since I had limited time to drink in my surroundings. Both were led completely by lantern light, which I deliberately chose instead of electrically-lit tours. First was the Great Onyx Cave, which featured some pretty formations and gypsum outcroppings, but I found it hard to concentrate due to the lack of respect of other tourists—walking off the path, using forbidden flash photography, and talking over the rangers. I am the Cave Karen, and I decree that no Croc-wearers shall be allowed to enter.

The Violet City tour was more strenuous, and I think it weeded out the lame-os. This group was small and focused as we hiked through Mammoth Cave proper, in awe of the 50-foot ceilings and layers of history left by Native Americans, slaves, and New Deal workers. Pictures cannot do justice to the feeling that your world blends to darkness beyond your lamp light. If you go to Mammoth Cave, take this tour.

Another two hours and I crossed the Ohio River into Indiana, stopping to eat dinner at an old-fashioned drive-in. The sun set. A stray cat walked the parking lot. Today was a good day.

Actually, late day 4. Gotcha! I pushed my luck and parked for the night fairly close to the main road. Around 11:30, just as I was finally falling asleep, I got the bright headlights/brighter flashlight combo. Police officer. Someone had called my car in as abandoned, and once he saw me everything was fine. Life is easier as a white male—I wouldn’t be traveling alone otherwise. I wish the world were a more equal place, and that everyone would be given such respect.

I started today along the Blue Ridge Parkway again. The fog was insidious and slowly crept in until I could barely see 30 feet in front of me. The only wildlife I saw was a long, brown dog, cheerfully walking toward cars on the road. The guide at the visitor center said it was probably an escaped hunting dog and sent a ranger to track it down.

The Parkway was closed at Roanoke, so I exited and was ejected onto the interstate. I was disappointed until I saw a magical sign on the freeway: Exit 6, Dr. Pepper Park. Interrobang. I could not wait to find Hershey Park’s long-lost, awful-tasting cousin. Instead, five minutes away, I found this.

The world’s saddest outdoor stage. How is this sponsored? Is this the best Dr. Pepper can do?

Disappointment turned to temptation as my path west took me to a mid-size city staple: a street with every chain restaurant imaginable. I could write a thousand words on this, but I’ll keep it quick. Yes, I prefer high-quality local restaurants and home-cooked meals. I still love chain restaurants. They’re almost like manmade species—after searching for bears and deer at Shenandoah yesterday, I was now on the hunt to find an elusive Cookout or Jack-in-the-Box. I did find a Cookout about an hour later and very much enjoyed my stop.

The pointy part of Virginia is naturally pretty, but is filled with gray remnants of civilization. Sagging, abandoned buildings; big rig cabs consumed by vines; a state prison. However, once I arrived at the westernmost edge, the landscape shifted, and I was surrounded by twenty-foot hills completely covered with gorgeous green vines. No pictures, since it was all highway, but a great backdrop as I swung through Tennessee and arrived in southern Kentucky. I have a hotel room for the night, since it may thunder here. Tomorrow, I visit Mammoth Cave!