The Road So Far...

                                                              Little Falls, Minnesota

                                                                 Little Falls, Minnesota

 Wahpeton, North Dakota

 Lisbon, North Dakota

  Lisbon, North Dakota

  Lisbon, North Dakota

 On US Route 46 West, North Dakota

 On US Route 46 West, North Dakota

 On US Route 46 West, North Dakota

 On US Route 46 West, North Dakota

 On US Route 46 West, North Dakota

 On US Route 46 West, North Dakota

 On US Route 46 West, North Dakota

 On US Route 46 West, North Dakota

 On US Route 46 West, North Dakota

 Tappen, North Dakota

 Steele, North Dakota

 The Badlands, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota

 The Badlands, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota

 The Badlands, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota

 The Badlands, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota

 The Badlands, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota

 Medora, North Dakota

 Medora, North Dakota

 Medora, North Dakota

 Medora, North Dakota

 Beach, North Dakota

 Beach, North Dakota

 Wibaux, Montana

 Wibaux, Montana

 Wibaux, Montana

 Miles City, Montana

 Miles City, Montana

 Miles City, Montana

Miles City, Montana



North Dakota (US Route 46 West)

A foggy morning out of Lisbon, North Dakota. The breakfast buffet at the Super 8 Motel was nothing more than appropriate but I was able to stack up on cinnamon rolls and fill my travel coffee mug for the push west. After filling up my car at the local gas station on main street I drove out of town heading north on US-32N. The fog didn’t give any signs of letting go anytime soon and that only gave a special romantic aura to the town as I looked back on main street through my rear view mirror.

After a few miles I turned west to US-46W which would take me close enough to the town of Steele but would allow me to avoid the interstate. With the window rolled down I could feel the cold early morning breeze on my face and the sudden smell of fermented barley filling the air. Bales of hay was all I was able to see for a few miles on either side of the road and nothing more. A few vehicles slowly started to appear mainly pick-up trucks hauling farming equipment and cattle trucks of various sizes. I could see their headlights slowly appearing on the horizon even before I could make out what kind of vehicle was coming down the road. Under the thick fog those headlights were like beacons that would let me know how far the straight road would take me. A couple of drivers raised their right hands to me from inside their cabs, probably a good morning salute around those parts to other early morning risers heading to work or maybe just a courtesy wave to a stranger passing by.

A few miles in, the farms started to be more scattered around and far apart and the fields between them getting bigger and bigger. Corn, wheat, soybeans and canola extended far behind my visibility, lightly brushed by the fog, giving an element of silvery brightness to the crops. As I kept moving west the sun made feeble attempts to peek in but was immediately denied by a fog that seemed to hang in the air. I was hoping the fog wouldn’t lift at least until I got into the interstate. There’s something quite mysterious and mystical in driving under the fog and in those surroundings it all became a matter of enjoying it for as long as I could and taking the mystical aspect of it in full.

The trucks kept passing in the opposite direction in bigger numbers now as the farming report on the radio announced the corn futures were down three quarters, the same with the live cattle futures and there was also a significant drop in the livestock market trades. I wondered what that information meant to any of the drivers I kept passing and if their livelihood was dependent on those predictions.

When the fog started lifting up outside of Gackle and the sun begun to shine in all its glory bathing the fields in yellow gold, the northern plains were just beginning to roll before me. At the intersection before turning north on US-30N I stopped to yield to an oncoming pick-up truck. The driver waved me to cross and I thanked him by raising my right hand which he acknowledged with a slight smile and a tip of his baseball cap. I drove off and tuned the radio to the hourly farming report hoping to hear some good news.

Lisbon, North Dakota

The I-694 bypass out of the twin cities was easy enough to drive through but still with enough rush hour traffic to render my full attention to the road. To cross the entirety of Minnesota in one single day would be easy to do but not when I wanted to get away from the interstate and go deep into the county highways all the way into North Dakota. After a few miles on I-94 I finally veered off the interstate into the more interesting US Highway 10 in the direction of Little Falls. Crossing the Mississippi river in Monticello was like crossing into another time. The massive railroad tracks kept following the highway and the long freight trains that seemed to extend for miles kept shadowing the highway like long lost friends.

I got into Little Falls just a little past noon and with enough time to take a stroll through the historic downtown district before lunch and revisit some of the old places I had visited a few years ago. The old bars that line up Broadway were all still there but unfortunately as I made my way to the Broadway Sports Bar, of which I had fond memories, I found that it was closed and that it was now named Johnny C’s. I wondered for a bit what had become of Bob, the previous owner, and recollected on the desperation on his face the last time I saw him, sweeping the snow off the sidewalk outside the bar.

I made my way across the street to the Whiskey River Saloon, more for the name than for anything else, for a cheeseburger and coke. While I waited for the burger I took a peek at an old jukebox by the front door. I found it interesting that Willie’s “Whiskey River” wasn’t part of the songs available. The bartender announced my food was ready and promptly disclosed that the jukebox was just for show and it didn’t function. I ate my cheeseburger and took my half full Styrofoam cup of coke with me as I took another short stroll through Broadway in the direction of my car.

I crossed the Mississippi river once again to leave Little Falls before turning west to US Highway 27 to Long Prairie. For twenty four miles there was nothing but silence. The soft wind that was barely audible was the only sound save for only a few semi-trucks going in the opposite direction. The scenery almost unchanged all the way through and in front of me only the highway that sometimes seemed to disappear on the horizon. After another eighteen miles on US Highway 71 I had to merge briefly onto I-94 before crossing into Fergus Falls and out of the interstate into North Dakota.

Finally out of the interstate I’ve begun my one hundred mile drive on US 210 that would take me straight into the Minnesota/North Dakota border and the twin cities of Breckenbridge and Wahpeton. With the buzzing of the interstate still ringing in my ears I opened the windows and slowly the light breeze and the sound of the tires on the asphalt became a welcome relief to my banged-up ears as I crossed into North Dakota.

As I drove the rural 2-lane road with only a few cars and trucks driving in the opposite direction it seemed I was going against the current. With miles of straight road stretching as far as I could see I begun to loosen up and feel connected to the road. I looked to my left and all I could see was farmland and pasture and scattered farmhouses with their typical grain storages and mills. I looked to my right and it was more of the same. For miles that’s all there was. I felt comfort in knowing that I might as well be lost and I wouldn’t know it. The unpredictability of the scenery reassured me. I was getting so used to it that I felt a strange connection it.

The sun was slowly starting to hide behind a few scattered clouds but I didn’t care. The thought occurred to me that by letting myself get lost in those surroundings could mean I could blow by my exit. But the fear of getting lost stopped being a concern if it meant that I would eventually find my way. I felt I should know where this road lead me. All I needed to know was that it was moving west. I felt so confident in those surroundings, so reassured of myself among those already familiar farmlands that I let myself be a part of it if only in my imagination and all of a sudden, as the sun begun to set, I felt at home.

September 17, 2014 (Super 8 Motel)

Hudson, Wisconsin

I woke up at 5:30 a.m. way before the 7 a.m. buzzing of the alarm clock. The roadtrip I’ve been looking forward to was finally about to begin. I brew some coffee on the coffee maker in the motel room and turned on the TV to the Weather Channel. With my bags already packed the night before I sat on the edge of the bed looking at the weather maps on TV for a few seconds. When the sound of the coffee brewing invaded the room I picked up the road atlas and went through the route I would be taking from Illinois all the way to the Wisconsin/Minnesota border. When the sun begun to shine through the half closed drapes I knew it was time to pick up my car for this roadtrip. I filled up a paper cup with the freshly brewed coffee and with my bags in tow made my way out the door to the car parked outside. After checking out of the motel the miles ahead begun to take shape in my road feverish mind.

I set the radio to a generic local country radio station and got into the early morning Chicago traffic already flowing heavily. After navigating for a few minutes through the gridlock of the North Loop I finally merged into I-94 heading west as Jason Aldean’s “Fly Over States”, ironically started playing on the radio. After just a few miles the traffic came to a standstill briefly, and for more than sixty miles afterwards, a 45 mile per hour speed limit was enforced due to construction work being done on the interstate. Not exactly the start I was hoping for, to be standing in rush hour traffic between concrete blocks on both sides of the road and big semis pushing the limits of their trucks higher than the revoked 75 miles per hour speed limit.

I changed the dial on the radio looking for something more imperative to the roadtrip than the usual country pop songs but all I got was more of the same across the dial. I turned the radio off and opened the window and breezed through for a few miles til the end of the road work as the scenery started to shift drastically from suburban and industrial towns to endless fields of corn. Finally the road begun to spread out and with fewer traffic to contend with I finally begun to enjoy the prospect of driving for hours without a single worry in mind.

I turned the radio on and looked for a country radio station more in tune with my taste that reaches as far back as the early Honky Tonk of the 50’s but only goes as far as the mid 90’s before pop music started informing almost every single song coming out of Nashville. The corn fields begun slowly to be replaced by dairy farms as I kept pushing west but my search for the perfect soundtrack didn’t yield any results. I didn’t want to push it too far the first day but four hours after leaving Chicago I didn’t felt I needed to stop, which for me is unusual as I’ve never driven more than three hours straight. But upon approaching the Tomah/Oakdale area the truck stop signs seemed like a beacon for someone who started to crave a little rest and some food.

The café adjacent to the truck wash at the Pilot Flying J Plaza seemed appealing from the outside as mostly trucks were parked in the parking lot. Although at first it appeared to be run down and the menu only consisted of a few choice sandwiches written in chalk on a black board it was somewhat cozy and a welcome relief from the noisy interstate. As I came in George Jones was playing on the radio which made me draw a big smile to the surprise of the old man behind the counter. After a delicious turkey breast sandwich and decent coffee I was ready to hit the road again and push forward to the Wisconsin/Minnesota border before the sun would set in.

I kept pushing on the gas and pressing on the radio dial and as I passed Eau Claire finally some familiar voices started propping up on the radio. Merle and Keith Whitley. Willie and Dan Seals. Emmylou and John Conlee. Dwight and Skip Ewing. One after the other. Finally I had the soundtrack I had desired for the roadtrip. And as the scenery started shifting drastically again, after the urban surroundings of Madison and the tourist attractions around Wisconsin Dells, all of a sudden it was all corn fields again scattered among dairy farms with bright red barns and rusty holding silos and herds of cattle grazing on the open fields.

For the next two hours the first day of the 30-day roadtrip was finally beginning as far as I was concerned and the thought that I was getting closer to Minnesota made me smile again knowing that the plains of North Dakota and the mountain ranges of Montana weren’t that far ahead.  

 

September 16, 2014 (Super 8 Motel)

St. Regis, Montana

I’ve been listening to Country Music for weeks out here on the road, from the rest rooms of an Indiana rest stop to a Missoula 7-Eleven. It seems to be the perfect soundtrack to these interstates I’m travelling while crossing America. And here it is again. Travis Tritt is singing about a “Modern Day Bonnie & Clyde” on the sound system of this so-called travel center. I’m waiting for the Greyhound to get serviced, drinking a god-awful coffee in a styrofoam cup from the convenience store. It’s damn cold outside as I sit in front of the closed Gift Shop. They boast in their window that they have the largest number of gifts and souvenirs from Montana as well as a live trout aquarium, both of which don’t raise my attention even if the shop was open. I look around and think to that if this were my first introduction to the state of Montana I would be highly disappointed.

It’s close to midnight. Across the road there’s a big gravel parking lot where a few semi-trucks are parked, their drivers clearly getting ready for sleep inside the cabs. They move in their tiny driving/work/living spaces with such ease that I’m sure they’ve been doing this all of their adult lives. The dim lights of the parking lot almost conceal a couple of RVs to the back. An intermittent light flashes from inside both of them which makes me believe they are watching TV from their portable devices. I hear a commotion and look in the direction of the Restaurant to see two fairly young waitresses and two middle aged waiters leaving and locking the doors behind them. It was my damn luck that my bus arrived here just after 11 p.m. when the restaurant was closing and I had to content myself with a day old rancid Danish and this excuse for coffee from the open all night convenience store. The waiters and waitresses keep chattering between them in front of the saloon next to the restaurant. The two waitresses then go inside the saloon and the two waiters head down to the casino next door.

The rest of my Greyhound companions start leaving the convenience store with brown paper bags under their arms. The type of road food that after so long on the road I can surely live without. I look at what’s left of my coffee and throw it away although it’s still half full and head to the side of the road to look for any signs of the Greyhound. I overhear someone say that it usually takes two hours for the bus to get serviced here, so it’s probably another hour of waiting. With that I head to the saloon where I saw those two waitresses go a few minutes ago.

The saloon is empty except for the restaurant waitresses and the bartender who’s talking to them. I go in and Clint Black is singing about “Killin’ Time” on the jukebox. I sit at the counter and the waitresses indicate to the bartender that there’s a costumer. I order a draft beer from a local brewery he recommends and he asks where I’m heading. I say I’m just crossing the country on a 30-day Greyhound pass without any specific destination. He says that he did the same thing years ago and that it was one of his most liberating experiences. Next up he’s planning a trip next summer on his motorcycle from up here in Montana to the Southwest and the Deep South. One of the waitresses comes to the counter and asks for two more Gimlet cocktails. Caroline and she’s in her early thirties. Giddy and talkative to the bartender and while waiting for the cocktails, she sits next to me and says, “I couldn’t help but hear you talking to Jim and I’d love to do what you’re doing someday. Just take off for thirty days on the road, with no compromises, nothing to tie me down, to meet interesting people and see America the way you’re seeing it. I’ve been dreaming about it for the past four or five years.” I say this is not my first such trip, that I just love to be out there on the road, it’s the best feeling when your mind is free, and you become someone else entirely, different from the one that society imposes on you. I add that this won’t probably be my last time either. That I need to get away every once in a while, to take stock of who I really am and the road is the best place for that. She’s been listening attentively and in the meantime her friend, Julia, comes back from the restroom and joins us at the counter. She’s also in her early thirties but a little less enthusiastic and interested in the conversation. Caroline is from near Coeur D’Alene, Idaho but she’s been living here since she can remember when her parents found jobs in the vicinity. Julia is from nearby Thompson Falls and could only find a job out here after dropping out of college. They seem to be the opposite of each other. Caroline the optimist who prides herself on getting asked out nearly every day on the restaurant and whose perfect slim body almost can’t be contained by her tight uniform. Julia whose shy ways probably didn’t get her that many prospects even in her twenties. Caroline seems to be only passing through while Julia seems to be reconciled to the fact that she’s probably gonna be stuck in here waitressing for a long time. I find myself thinking that Julia attracts me the most. There’s something about her ways that tells me that she has a great deal of love to give to the right person who can get through her shyness and barrier of silence. The bartender interrupts my thoughts and serves them the Gimlets and noticing I’m about finished with my beer asks if I’m having another one and I say I’m afraid I have to get back outside so I won’t miss my bus. “One for the road then” the bartender says to me. I say I’m on the end of my trip this time and have only 7 more days on the pass and I’m saving my money for the 3-day trip back to the east coast. Caroline signals to Jim that she will take care of my tab and he pours me another beer. I thank Caroline for the beer and we all toast to the open road, to the freedom it gives. I finish my beer and thank them. George Strait’s “Amarillo By Morning” starts playing on the jukebox as I leave the saloon singing about “Everything that I’ve got is just what I’ve got on” as  Caroline sings along in unison. I wave goodbye at Caroline, Julia and Jim and they wave back at me wishing me a good trip back home. Caroline calls out to me and says “Hope to catch up with you one of these days, out there on the road”. I nod in agreement and step out.

Outside the saloon my travel companions are already lining up to board the bus which is slowly coming down the road. At the next door casino I keep hearing the tilting of the slots and the angry yells of the gamblers at the machines. I walk towards the intersection where the bus is supposedly going to stop and I look past the gas station adjacent to the convenience store and I’m marvelled at the amount of pine trees ascending to the mountains as far as my eyes can see. And I’m suddenly made aware of a big beautiful yellow moon hanging over those endless pine trees. And even with the smell of diesel and gasoline from the gas station, I can still smell those pine trees and take a long deep breath looking at them. As I wait to board the bus, Caroline and Julia are heading home in separate cars. Waiting to board my bus, I see a semi coming off the ramp of I-90 and heading our way carrying a big load of logs. From the parking lot across from where I stand, the driver of one of the parked semis starts his engine, ready to hit the road. On the gas station sound system, Dan Seals is singing about those “Big Wheels In The Moonlight.”  I take my seat up front after everyone else has boarded the bus and find comfort in knowing that I still have a few more days out here on the road.

Drummond, Montana

It’s High Noon. I stand in the intersection of Front and Main Street. A big cluster of clouds line up on the horizon. The Greyhound has stopped here for lunch and at first I’m disappointed as I look around to find myself in the middle of another nowhere town, it seems. Looking in the direction of Main Street I can look both ways and almost see the whole town. There’s not a single store, as far as I can see, that looks like it might be opening anytime soon. All of them look like they’ve been closed for years and nobody ever cared to post a notice to that effect in the windows. A couple of them sport some advertising posters that I’m sure are at least twenty years old. Turning to Front street the first thing that catches my eye is the American flag flying high on top of the Fire Station house trying to fight this sudden sleet coming from the north. The local bank announces on its windows the upcoming Fourth of July parade, which is still more than two months away. On the other side of the railroad tracks, the water tower stands tall and proud as if trying to prove to any visitor or passer-by that this was once a thriving farming community. There’s only a couple of parked cars and pickup trucks but no sign of traffic anywhere. I get a sense I’m in a different time altogether, as if the town was frozen in the 1900’s and I’m about to see some real working cowboys on their horses coming down Main Street or cattle being driven to pasture.

The sleet has turned to snow and I head to where the bus is parked. The engine is still running and the smell of the diesel mixed with the cigarette smoke from some of my bus companions make me wish we were back on the road. Then the sudden smell of grease in the air raises my attention to the “Frosty Freeze” and a sign that announces the best burgers and fries in the state of Montana. From outside it looks like one of those places from the Depression captured by the photographers of the Farm Security Information. I step inside and I am overwhelmed by how even the smell of recently brewed coffee isn’t enough to subdue the strong smell of burgers and fries coming from the kitchen. At the counter sit two old men drinking coffee, the only costumers in the café. They both got John Deere caps on, faded jeans and cowboy boots that I’m sure have seen better days. They both look past their prime and judging from a long life of hard labour, they should be retired somewhere else where sunshine is prominent. But they don’t let a single air of disillusion for the life they chose and for the difficult times they’re certainly going through. Quite the contrary. They thrive in surviving despite all the setbacks. Right there I find the spirit of every single small town in America, stamped in their faces.

I sit at the counter a stool away from them and watch as Bill, the one closest to me keeps eating his bacon strips from a plate with his arthritis’ hands. He has an habit of touching the tip of his cap every once in a while that I’m certain is the result of years of tipping it to the ladies. Tom sits next to him and keeps reading the newspaper’s weather predictions over and over again as he’s sipping his coffee real slow. He wears suspenders that only highlight his slight hunchback. They talk about the weather and how if this snow doesn’t let up, they will soon have to dig up their snow plows. It’s the end of April and Bill says he hasn’t seen this much snow so late into spring in more than fifty years. They finally acknowledge me with a tip of their caps. I nod back and I can see tiny drops of bacon fat hanging in Bill’s thick grey moustache. They keep discussing the weather and how this constant sleet and snow will ruin the crops of hay pretty much for years to come. The owner/cook/waiter comes back from the kitchen and places an order of burger and fries in front of Tom. He then serves me coffee and asks if they’ll be something else. I say that famous burger and fries looks good to me and he goes back into the kitchen to prepare my order. I look around and notice a big clock on the wall with a pendulum that seems to be running slow. Not only that but both Bill and Tom seem to do everything to its slower rhythm. Bill is still eating his bacon strips and Tom sipping his coffee to the rhythm of that slow pendulum. I look outside and see the rest of my bus companions boarding the bus on the snow and only then remember hearing the driver announcing that this will only be a 15-minute cigarette break. I call out to the kitchen and say I’m terribly sorry but I need to get back on the bus so I only be having the coffee to go. Tom turns to me and says he’ll be glad to let me have his order to go. I thank him and finish my coffee and pay the owner who hands me a Styrofoam container with the burger and fries.

As I head to the exit I cannot help but notice a few used books by the door which are intended for trading by the townsfolk and travellers. I browse through them and find a very worn copy of Thomas McGuane’s “Nothing But Blue Skies” which I’ve been wanting to read ever since I read “Nobody’s Angel” years ago. I reach for my backpack and take out William Kittredge’s “The Willow Field” which I had just finished reading on the bus and trade it in for the McGuane novel. I look back at Bill, Tom and the owner and they give me an approving nod and a tip of their caps. I step outside and run for the bus as it’s ready to leave and take my seat up front just in time to see Tom reaching for the Kittredge book and taking it with him to the counter. I smile and look at the McGuane book as the bus roars by and tries to fight the sleet and snow that is starting to pour on down heavier now. The windshield wipers at full speed can hardly keep up with the snow falling in front of the bus. I can hardly see anything past a few feet in front of me as we keep rolling on I-90. I grab my burger and fries and eat the best burger I’ve had in the state of Montana without a doubt, looking straight ahead at the snow that is finally letting up. I open up the book and start reading as the slower methodical sound of the windshield wipers pushing the snow from the windows seem to be marking time.

Big Timber, Montana

Another small town early morning mist. Getting off the Greyhound for breakfast, the first thing you see are the mountains to the north which are still capped with snow altough it’s already early May. Flowers are blooming in the gardens of a few neighborhood houses. My vision is blurred by sleep but still I can hear the roosters crowing and the dogs barking in the distant farm houses to the east. Another day on the road for me and I’m already feeling vindicated by this life I chose. The Diner is another dive you have gotten used to on the road but the sizzling of frying bacon and the smell of fresh coffee is enough to convince me to sit down. The place is already packed at 6 in the morning. Farmers and old-timers each looking for their first morning pick-me-up. They all look at me the same way with enough curiosity followed by a welcoming nod. The waitresses are like a compilation of every single waitress I’ve encountered on the road. There’s Margie, the older one, who seems to be running the place. Shouting orders left and right to the younger waitress and to the cook. She sports a huge beehive hairdo that looks to me that it’s about to take off at any moment. Her wide broad smile and energy lights up the place and I’m sure by her out of place accent that she’s not originally from around here. I sit in a corner booth and the waitress who has that section is a pretty young thing by the name of Cathy. She clearly doesn’t want to be here, she is probably just saving enough money to get the first Greyhound out of here. Her eyes never meet the costumer’s, they just wander pass the windows, across the parking lot to I-90 and the cars speeding East and West without stopping. Her ways are casually distracted. She comes to take my order and I give her a smile but her stance is unperturbed. My eyes follow her for a moment but then begin to veer off to main street where the town is slowly waking up. Young kids with their backpacks waiting for the school bus. Dogs and thier owners taking their first morning stroll. Cars at a traffic light. The drivers not so anxiously as you’d expect, waiting for the light to change. Watching this makes me missmy hometown even more and I actually think that maybe one of these days I should just settle down in a place like this. Find a good woman, a job that pays enough to get by and just start again. My thoughts are interrupted by Cathy placing my plate on the table. I don’t even notice her at first, and only after she calls out to me, do I notice that she’s probably been standing there for a few seconds. I apologize by saying that I was only day dreaming. She responds by saying that that is her favorite hobby. I smile at her and this time she smiles back at me. I know that the nature of her day dreams are probably the opposite of mine but still I can’t help but think looking at her smile again, that I could settle here for awhile, knowing fully well that she has other plans than just hang around here for too long. I try to extend my smile towards her and she feels awkward about it, enough to excuse herself.  After I finish my meal I make my way to the exit. I stop before exiting the Diner and she catches me as she began to clear my table and says with a big smile on her face “Thank you and please come back again” and waves at me. I nod and wave goodbye back  at her and head to the bus who’s already ready to leave. And I’m thinking that I will be coming back again for sure when I’m ready to go home.