midwest cultural tours - driftless

Bridge 18 on the Kickapoo River.

Deeper in the Driftless - Our road trip through America's Dairyland continues.

A few years ago, I was made aware of a used book store in the town of Viroqua. I’d never been there, but I was intrigued by their name. Driftless Books* and the Driftless Centre for Slow Media is located in the Forgotten Works Warehouse. The warehouse is across the street from an old railroad spur and originally housed the Viroqua Leaf Tobacco Co. We don’t often think tobacco growing when we think of Wisconsin, but in the mid- to late-1800s and into the early 1900s, tobacco was grown in Vernon County. (This would have been a big cash crop during the Civil War, I imagine.) I even remember a family who grew and dried it in one of the hard-to-get-to valleys outside Elroy in the late 1970s and early 80s.

My brother, Mike, joined Jon and me on a tour that took us from Hillsboro, through LaFarge, and, finally, to Viroqua (pop. 5,079) on Highway 82. As we drove the long ridges, Mike shared stories of people he knew: the people who moved to the area years ago to get away from big city living. People who raised sheep; people who managed to go back to the land.

Though he knows the area well, Mike had never been to the bookstore. I’d written down the directions in my pocket-sized notebook, so I knew how to find it. On a sunny day, we stepped into the dark building, walked down a hall and into an expansive room with wood floors and high ceilings. Most of the limited light came in through the tall windows. As I was squinting my way through the poetry shelves, the owner came over and turned on a light for me; I hadn't even noticed it was there. I scanned the selections, which included some classics and contemporary poets. Eventually, I found a gem: a hardbound Portable Walt Whitman dated 1973 that had been withdrawn from the Madison public library. Not a collector's item, but a handy size, and I need more Whitman in my life.

Later, I picked up a book from a table; I’d remembered hearing about it: Salt. I put it back down. I saw Jon carrying it around later and was glad he'd found it. After strolling the voluminous collection, I found a copy Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums and decided to get it. After over an hour browsing through the shop, we were ready to check out. That’s when we learned there was also an upstairs and a basement!

Turns out, many of the books upstairs weren’t cataloged - the owner had just returned from a buying trip in Texas where Larry McMurtry (yes, that Larry McMurtry) was selling the inventory of his bookstore. Who knows what finds the owner had brought back in his truck? It made me wonder, how does a bookstore situated in a small town in a rural part of the state make it? While we were the only customers in the store that late morning, Driftless Books does much of its business online. It’s a new model where a business can be located far from population centers where expenses are low and quality of life, high. After the woman at the counter rang up our purchases, we were ready for lunch.

Our destination: Driftless Cafe. We placed our orders at the counter, chose a table and started looking around. I’m sorry now that I didn’t do the tourist thing of returning to the car for my camera. There was a fiber-art exhibit decorating the walls; the artist used lots of natural materials. One that stood out was a wool piece that incorporated old washers and bolts. The fabric was dyed with rusty water. Some works included branches or other found items from nature. I had time to take it all in as I waited for my panini and contemplated the slice of pie that was already on the table. Over by the coffee station, I ran into the owner of the bookstore who was finishing his lunch. We chatted briefly and he seemed pleased with his recent acquisitions, though he acknowledged he had a lot of work to do. Years ago, I worked in a book store in Milwaukee. A part of me still loves the simple act of arranging books. I know. It never leaves!

After lunch, we strolled around the town, checking out shops. I wandered through a spacious yarn shop and imagined it would be a great place to gather with friends to knit. We stopped briefly in a fishing store and, of course, the bike shop, Blue Dog Cycles. There, we found out about singletrack trails that have been built in the area and about trails to ride just outside LaFarge (pop. 746) in the Kickapoo Valley Reserve. Another reason to bring bikes next time.

We left Viroqua and finally paid a visit to the Reserve. Mike knows one of the people who works there, so we chatted for a bit, then picked up a trail map and headed out for a hike. Down the hill, across a creek, then across the Kickapoo River on Bridge 18. The bridges are numbered for a canoe route that flows between Ontario (pop. 554) and LaFarge. We hiked over to the East Ridge Trail, then realized we wouldn’t have enough time to finish a loop hike in time to meet a dinner commitment. We backtracked, then took a side route on the Dam Trail where we encountered the Dam Tower (which was mentioned in a previous post).

In the Kickapoo Valley Reserve: the Dam Tower, with the
abandoned earthen dam forming the slope to the left.

The reserve was established after a decades long fight to dam the valley was won by environmental concerns. Though the dam was to be built to fight flooding on the Kickapoo and establish lake-based tourism, it is instead a beautiful place to enjoy the scenery and history of the region. Visiting the area gives me reason to contemplate all the people who had been removed. When settlers arrived, the Ho-Chunk peoples were removed to the west. When the dam was to be built, over 100 families were bought out and removed. Years later, the area is rich in cultural history, much of which would have been lost under water, as has happened in other places in the United States and around the world.
Next time I visit, I'd like to explore the high bluffs and maybe paddle part of the river. And I'd like to get a look at some areas that had been the homes to the Ho-Chunk people. And, if it’s summer, maybe I’d even bring the tent.

During the course of the trip, I was surprised at how many "new" places we visited. I left Central Wisconsin for Madison, then Milwaukee, just after high school and didn't spend much time there after that. Now that I live much farther away, and with the benefit of years of separation from the area, I see it with an appreciation I didn't have before. Plus, allowing the time to explore and having a partner willing to go along makes all the difference.

*I would have used their website, but it has not been responsive.

midwest cultural tours - farms and backroads

No tour de cheese would be complete without a visit to a dairy farm. Jim and Rebecca Goodman graciously endured our questions during a visit to their organic dairy farm, Northwood Farm, one evening. They ran the farm with Jim's brother for many years; now the brother's half has been sold and Jim and Rebecca look forward to selling their half of the operation. Any illusions that farming is like Green Acres were quickly dispelled as Jon, Mike and I strolled with Jim through the operation.

Yes, small farms are part of the 99%.

Dairy Tour

We started in the barn where we found Jim and Rebecca in a small office-like room next to the milkhouse (which is also a room in the barn). We checked out the calves, then toured the equipment, with Jim explaining the job each machine performed in the fields. Now, I grew up just down the road from my aunt, Anna Mae and Uncle Hugh. They ran a dairy farm and I think I knew what each piece of equipment did. Either I've forgotten, or, more likely, better equipment has been developed in the nearly 30 years since they stopped farming and joined the Peace Corps. There was lots of equipment.

I think it helps make hay.

Jim Goodman, farmer and outspoken farm advocate.
Wish we'd had more time to chat, but a farmer's work is never done.

After the equipment tour, Jim showed Jon the hay mow and pointed out the differences between hay and straw. One is feed; one is bedding. One is made of alfalfa; the other of grain stalks. If you were a farm kid, you'll know which is which. Finally, it was time to bring in the cows. They have just over 40 milking cows and milk them twice a day every day. While Jim got the milking equipment ready, Mike, Jon, Rebecca and I, along with a dog named Bob, headed out to the pasture which was across the road from the barn. We walked to the far end of the fenced-in area to herd the black and white Holstein cows to a staging area; then Rebecca herded them through a culvert under the road.

Co' boss! Bob the dog helps bring in the cows.

 
[On a side note, while touring Taliesin, the guide said that Frank Lloyd Wright kept cows on the property, black and white cows just like these. But the third Mrs Wright, Olgivanna, thought they looked like newspapers blowing around on the field. She'd also thought the white chickens looked like tissues in the field and demanded they get rid of the white chickens in favor of brown ones. Likewise, they switched to brown cows and they were much more pleasing to her. Aesthetics!]

Look out, kitty! Bringing in the cows.

Things I take for granted were surprises for Jon: like the fact that each cow (mostly) knew which stall she should be in. As the creatures entered the barn, we watched as some turned left, some right, some uncertain. Jim and a young neighbor boy began the work on one end of the barn. When he'd skip a cow, we'd wonder why. One had not yet had her first calf, but he was integrating her into a milking stall so she'd be familiar with it when she'd given birth. Makes sense.

Rose, the cow. I met her last time!

The Goodmans' milk goes to Cedar Grove, where it's make into delicious no-rBGH cheese. Maybe their milk is in some of the cheese we bought a few days earlier. Thus it goes full circle and I'm reminded of the great appreciation I have for farmers who toil each day to produce our food, whether they are the dairy farmers of my home state or the dairy and produce farmers in the Matanuska Valley, here in my adopted state. Though the Goodmans have been talking retirement, Jim also mentioned that their new farming partners are interested in adding laying hens to the farm. Sounds like a perfect addition.

Outside the barn.

Speaking of chickens

Earlier in the day, Jon and I had driven to Elroy (pop. 1,442) to visit with my sister Joanne. Then we all headed out to "the farm," which is how many of my siblings refer to the 10-acre place where we were raised and where my brother Bob and his wife Mary live. They keep chickens, providing fresh eggs to anyone in the family who wants them, and also have a garden and fruit trees.

Here chicken, chicken! At the farm.

Jon feeds a hen that Mrs Wright would have liked.

I hadn't been to the farm in a while so we had Bob show us some of the changes they've made, including the hen house and enclosed area. We fed the hens some chicken feed and a few of the grapes that grow next to the garage. Eventually, it started to sprinkle and Jon and I were ready to head out. Bob gave us some homemade grape jelly to take home. Pretty nice.

We had the Atlas & Gazetteer with us in the car, so we navigated our way along some backroads that I used to drive or travel while riding the school bus. The big change is that now all those backroads have been paved. I caught myself many times imagining biking along the long wooded ridges, past farm fields, barns and homes. Considered the steep hills to climb or descend. In Wisconsin, good roads are necessary to get milk to the dairies quickly; a farmer can only store so much milk in the bulk tank. But when I was growing up most of these old township roads were still gravel - including Brown Road, where the farm is. I imagine a bike tour from cheese factory to tavern would make for quite a fun trip.

I guess this is part of my continued shoulder recovery and my increased desire to be ready for a long ride. I see a perfect (or even not-so-perfect) road and want to feel wind in my face that is not coming from the air conditioner. I see uphills as a cyclist would, imagining the gear and power I'd need to get to the top. Maybe next time we go to Wisconsin we'll take bikes along. It would make the backroad tours that much more fun.

midwest cultural tour - cheese

No cultural tour of Wisconsin would be complete without cheese. Besides, what else would we put in the cooler we used to bring frozen salmon from Alaska? And where to begin? We made a few visits to cheese shops, sampling or choosing cheeses just by the descriptions on the labels. But it's not just about the cheese.

While traveling through cheese country, which is also Amish
country, the buggy-parking paddock.

Food

After our visit to Taliesin, including lunch at the visitor center, Jon and I headed into Spring Green (pop. 1,628) to browse through a few shops. We took our time and almost missed the open hours at Cedar Grove's factory store just outside of Plain (pop. 773). With five minutes to spare, we tried to be quick with our selections. Most notably, we grabbed a couple packages of grated buffalo mozzarella. Great on salads or pizza, we knew our hosts, Mike and Pam, would enjoy it, too. I also grabbed an impulse buy, Fleance, sheep milk cheese. (Cedar Grove uses only organic and non-rBGH milk and that does set them apart from most other cheesemakers.)

We drove through Plain, stopping at a local market for sweet corn which looked pretty shriveled. Then we noticed a meat market (the butcher kind; not the bar kind), Straka's, just down the street. Inside we found locally-made sausages and bacon and a variety of meats plus a staff waiting to help us. We picked up some cinnamon maple bacon (wow!), some pepper-crusted summer sausage (tender, and the best I've ever had), braunschweiger and some meat sticks. As we waited to ring up our order, the woman from the cheese shop came in and I asked if she knew of any produce stands north of town. She told us where to find one and we were off, continuing the trip toward Reedsburg and, eventually, Wonewoc (pop. 816).

The produce stand had fresh tomatoes as did one farther up the highway where we also found cucumbers. Still no sweet corn. It's been a rough year for corn on farms without irrigation, which is most of them. We gave up that search, but made one more stop in Reedsburg (pop. 9,200) before going to the house. I needed to take Jon to Viking Liquor. A beer-lover's paradise, I walked along the long row of microbrews, displaying them to him Vanna White style. After stalking in wonder back and forth past the selections, we made two mixed six-packs and got a third six-pack of IPA then headed for the counter. After our hot, sweaty day, we were looking forward to sampling the Wisconsin brews.

 If I was a better reviewer, I'd have kept a list of the beers we sampled. I do recall one called Bitter Woman. What can I say? I buy for the labels! And while Mike pointed out that a store in Madison has a much more extensive selection, for us Alaskans, Viking was pretty impressive.

The next day, Jon and I drove to Mauston (pop. 4,423), the county seat of Juneau County, to have an early lunch with my aunt, Anna Mae. We shared with her our impressions of Taliesin, talked about family and what we've been up to. We also tried to convince her to come up for a visit since one of her old friends lives in Anchorage. Maybe next summer. After lunch, Jon and I left the city and headed south on our way to one of our favorite cheese stores: Carr Valley Cheese, just south of LaValle. The shop was surprisingly busy for a Wednesday afternoon, but we went to work finding our favorites and discovering some new varieties. While not organic, the cheeses are pretty awesome, with lots of variety. How could I resist the label for Glacier Penta Crème Cheese: 'A revolutionary five crème blue, the most decadent blue available at Carr Valley?" Or the Caso Bolo Mellage which I enjoyed so much on my little Wisconsin bike tour two years ago? Or the aged Cardona, Canaria or black goat truffle? I was practically swooning!

While we were in the cheese store, an Amish man came in and bought something. It occurred to us that he and some of the other people shopping might be overflow from a farm auction taking place just down the road. Well, we'd never been to a farm auction! Cute suede sandals be damned, we headed for the auction, where I carefully dodged puddles and cow pies, horse poop and mud, as we examined old farm equipment set out in a field, making our way to the farm house, then the barn.

At the farm auction. A consignment auction, there were animals
and equipment from several farms.

It was an Amish-owned farm, so there was no electricity, but a man was running a gas-engine that worked an ice cream machine, producing some darn fine soft serve. (I don't know the many rules of Amish power usage, but who cares when it delivers cold ice cream on a hot day?) Under a large canopy-tent, women and girls were selling pies and produce. We bought fresh green beans, then walked past some wringer washers and other household appliances and headed toward the barn. On our way, we looked at all the horses and two-wheeled buggies that their owners had parked in a corral. We strolled through a dark barn, its low white-wash ceiling dripping with cobwebs, past a few cows and one very skinny calf. The auctioneer's voice carried through the building. They were bidding on horses. Work horses, riding horses, buggy-pulling horses. It would have been a bit of a mucky walk to get to the auction area, so we watched from outdoors as yet another horse was led in and introduced for the bidding.

Ready for auction.

We could tell this was an all-day event and it may have been fun to hang out a little longer, but the high 80-degree temperatures wouldn't be great for the cheese in our cooler, so we headed back toward Wonewoc, watching out for more horse & buggy teams as we drove the two-lane roads.

Back in Wonewoc, we were enjoying the seemingly unlimited supply of basil in Pam's backyard garden. Since arriving the previous Friday, we'd picked leaves for making pesto, had fresh basil in salads - especially with tomatoes and mozzarella. That wasn't the only thing we were picking. Mike and Pam have hops growing on their back fence, but learned that they are an ornamental variety. Luckily, a wild supply grows along the rail-trail just outside town. Pam and I picked the wild hops - the area was known for growing hops during a craze in the mid-1800s - for the Labor Day beer making project. We added a quart of the green buds to the home brew kit Mike was using.  I won't have a chance to try any when it's ready sometime in October, but I'm sure it'll go great with cheese and summer sausage.

*Jon took all the photos at the auction.

midwest cultural tours - architecture

Our cultural tour of Wisconsin continues as we visit Spring Green and the home of architect Frank Lloyd Wright.

Taliesin - shining brow - built just downslope of the crown of the hill.

Taliesin...

America's best-known architect built his home in south-central Wisconsin where he had views of farm fields and woodlands, bluffs with rock outcroppings and the Wisconsin River. Why there? Because it's where his grandparents settled after emigrating from Wales in the 1800s. On the trip Jon and I took to Wisconsin, we decided to drive to Spring Green to learn more about Frank Lloyd Wright and Taliesin. On a day when the temperature would soar to 90 degrees, we signed up for the four-hour tour.

During a tour that merged the end with the beginning, our guide, John, first took us through the family cemetery where Wright had designed the ceiling of the chapel and where he was laid to rest in 1959. I won't give away sordid details about his grave, but visiting the cemetery sets the stage for us to learn how Wright's ancestors settled the valley and provided the views we see from Taliesin's windows at the end of the tour. They were farmers and carpenters, millers and teachers. They helped build the community.

School building - note the low overhang on the right, the tree becoming one with the structure.

After the cemetery, we visited the school. Originally the site of a boarding school, it now houses an architecture school where students stay in rooms the guide described as similar to a monk's cell. Windows span two floors and the guide said Wright was the first to accomplish this feat. (I'm not an expert on the subject, so am in no position to confirm or deny the claim.)

Romeo and Juliet Windmill, above the school.

This residence is a converted farm building, about 500 square feet.
Windmill in the background.

Low entrances that make tall people duck lead visitors into expansive, high-ceiling rooms. We sat in the theater that was part of the school, admiring the stage curtain that was created by Wright's students as a gift to their teacher. I'm sorry that we couldn't take photos inside, but the seats were surprisingly comfortable in the cozy space. After the theater (which is still used for productions) we walked out and up the hill to the windmill. This is the third incarnation of the windmill Wright originally designed for his aunts who were founders and teachers at the boarding school. Like many things on the property, it has been rebuilt a few times.

Outside Wright's bedroom and study; the last room we saw during the tour.

Detail on our way to the main entrance, which is around the building
from where I thought the entrance would be! I love the windows & his colors!

And Taliesin, the residence? Before entering the structure, we sat outside having cold drinks and snacks, then we toured the outside: the garden and past the former stable; looking at the roof and the many limestone chimneys. We learned that it was built with no foundation just below the crest of the slope - thus the name which is Welsh for 'shining brow.' Years of water flowing from the gutterless roof and runoff from the top of the hill eventually destabilized the structure. Money was raised to repair it. But so much of the building, while beautiful to behold, is structurally flawed. Thus requiring staff and funding to make repairs.

It makes me wonder if it was Wright's intent that Taliesin should be allowed to sink back into the earth, to become another crumbling limestone outcrop upon a wooded slope, subject to the forces of wind, rain, snow and ice. If it was built to be as impermanent as our own selves, transient. Did he not leave enough sturdy examples of his work in cities, especially Chicago where he had labored during the week for many years?

I've begun reading the biography of Frank Lloyd Wright, written by Meryle Secrest - it's the one the guide recommended. Maybe I'll find some answers there. Maybe not. But it's already a fascinating story and it reminds me that if you want to understand somebody, you need to find out where they come from.

...and beyond

Before we leave the architecture tour, here's a tower that's in the Kickapoo Valley Reserve. It's called the Dam Tower and would have been an important part of a dam that was mostly built, but never completed, on the Kickapoo River near LaFarge. It was built to last a little longer than Taliesin, but was never put to use. When I look at this photo, I think the structure doesn't belong there, yet it does, if only as a reminder that when you build a dam to make a lake, a lot of people and a lot of history will be displaced. It's another story and if you go to the link above, you can read all about it. I'll be sure to spend more time in the reserve next time I visit.

Dam Tower (Damn Tower?), LaFarge, Wisc.

midwest cultural tours - taverns

On Monday, Jon and I returned from a two-week trip to the Midwest. The trip began and ended in Minneapolis, but most of our time was spent in Wisconsin, in small towns nestled among rolling hills, bluffs, outcroppings and valleys that make up what is know as the Driftless Region. We explored sites and attractions I have never visited before. Some were taverns that dot the backroads of the area.

Along the driveway to Babe's Country Club.

Bar Culture

When we arrived in Wonewoc (pop. 816) late Friday afternoon at the start of the Labor Day weekend, my brother and his wife immediately suggested we go for a fish fry at a tavern in a small crossroads town of Lime Ridge (pop. 162). We piled into the Buick that used to belong to my dad and headed out. Though the tavern wasn't crowded, the wait for food was an hour (mostly due to takeout orders), but we placed our food orders and ordered drinks. Pam ordered an Old Fashioned and since it's the official mixed drink of Wisconsin (you thought it was chocolate milk?), I quickly followed her lead. Sweet, tall and cold. It was a perfect way to take in the atmosphere while waiting for our food. Almost every bar in Wisconsin will offer a fish fry on Friday nights. Don't bother ordering a burger; it's not on the menu. What kind of fish will you get? At Lime Ridge, it was cod. Sometimes you'll get perch, but more often it's cod.

While we chatted and waited for our food, the big screen tvs were playing a movie I'd never seen. More distracting than a sporting event, I almost got caught up in the plot as I sipped my Old Fashioned. When Pam ordered another, the bartender served it then said she should try the whiskey version (we were drinking the brandy version - I've heard that Wisconsinites consume more brandy than any other state). He should have suggested that before serving her BOF, but he did offer us a taste of one he'd just mixed for himself and it was tasty.

A cheese appetizer and cole slaw kept us busy until the fish came. And it only took 45 minutes, not an hour! I ordered the tater tots with my fish. It was a hearty plate load of food and Jon & I should have done what Mike & Pam did: shared a plate. Live and learn. But it was delicious and reminded me of the many fish fries I've gone to when I lived in Wisconsin.

On our final evening in Wisconsin, after a week of visiting with family and exploring the countryside, Mike suggested visiting a few bars. I've meant to go to Babe's Country Club for years. It's out on a back road, a handful of miles from any town. My dad used to go there on occasion, but I had never been there. We planned to hit a few other bars on our tour, but the first one didn't pan out - The Summit was closed for a private party. We could have crashed the wedding, but the place looked pretty crowded, upping the chances that we'd see someone one of us knew.

As we drove toward Babe's, lightning appeared in the western sky and it began raining large drops. Mike reminded me before we went inside to not ask to see a beer menu. Jon paused to pet a cat hanging around at the front door, then we made our way inside where a woman who seemed a bit drunk came up to Pam and told everyone how she and Pam had gone to school together and that Pam was always the instigator of trouble. It was a little awkward for a moment, but the guys and one other woman at the bar were more interested in the Badgers/Oregon State game on the satellite tv and the woman quickly left us alone and remained on her cell phone for the rest of our time there.

I ordered what everyone else did, High Life, and looked at the crowd. Four or five guys and a woman at the long end of the L-shaped bar; the four of us on the short end, eyes all glued to the game. This is where Jon would say "four beers for six bucks!" Yes, but it's not IPA. It's still Miller. The storm picked up and in the final minute of the Badger game, which they were losing at 7-10, the satellite went out and the guys at the bar roared. They could no longer bar-stool coach the game and one tried in vain to bring up the game on a his phone. Such is rural life with its spotty cell service. When the sat. returned, the game was over and we were ready to head to a bar called Little Summit.

We'd heard there was a hay ride that night, and we caught up with them at Little Summit. A John Deere tractor with dual wheels and a wagon filled with a layer of hay bales was parked across the road. In the puddle-filled dirt lot, we parked next to a couple of Harleys and went in. It was a full house, but they had a beer selection (I saw Guinness in the case!). Jon had a Pabst (in honor of my dad, he said) and I ordered a Blue Moon. People ignored the 'Please don't sit on the pool table' signs and a few stood just outside the open doorway to smoke while rain fell and the breeze blew the smoke into the bar. (I would later catch the view of the orange-painted sunset from that doorway after the crowd left.)

Turns out Pam's brother was one of the hay wagoneers and he appeared to be the only one with full rain gear. Good thing, because they'd started in Hillsboro*, stopped at Babe's and would be continuing to a little dive called Jackson's Clinic. When they loaded up to leave Little Summit, it was raining. As we passed the wagon on the road it looked pretty awful, though Mike assured me they had drinks in a cooler and didn't mind. Before we pulled into Jackson's Clinic Mike and Pam said they hadn't been there in years and that the place always has fights.

The outside wasn't well lit and it felt like we were walking up to a much-neglected farm out-building. We walked through an open door into a room with a pool table, past the jukebox and down a few steps through a doorway to the main bar. We ordered MGD, except for Jon who again went for the PBR. I got my beer and looked around at the crowd, then began wandering back to the steps. I turned to take in the view of the bar. That's when I saw the bras displayed from the ceiling. I touched Jon's arm 'I just noticed those.' I gestured toward the ceiling. A tall guy looked at me incredulously. 'I'm short. I don't see things high up,' I explained. 'You should put yours up there.' I must have reached for Jon again. I didn't have a quick comeback. Then he commented on our beer choices: like mine was not as good a choice as Jon's. I let the comment slide and the guy walked past. I had to remind myself that I was just a tourist here. Brings this video to mind.

Jackson's Clinic

While the four of us played a game of pool (50 cents), the hayride crowd showed up, wet and thirsty. They filed through the pool room and down the steps. After our game, we stepped outside into the rain-freshened air. A picnic table sat in the grass, soaked. Through the trees, I was sure there was a view, but it was getting dark now. Pam & I went back into the bar and noticed a bench we could stand on to see above the crowd. From our new vantage, it was the same as any bar: people who knew each other; a few strangers; sitting or standing around, maybe enjoying each others' company. Maybe just trying to forget the week. The music was too loud for conversation, but we tried. Mostly, we observed.

Jon said he needed a Harley-Davidson shirt to fit in at Jackson's Clinic. I assured him that wearing a his red pullover and cap told people he was a Badger fan and that made him fit in (not to mention he has an awesome beard right now). But he's probably right - none of us really fit in there.

As we were leaving, Mike told us that while Pam and I had been keeping an eye on the crowd inside, there had been a fight outside. I guess that's to be expected at Jackson's Clinic. We headed back to Wonewoc and as we drove down Highway 33 I noticed the storm clouds had cleared revealing a star-filled sky. We were ready for a late dinner of grilled t-bone and baked potato. The next day, Jon and I would be driving back to Minneapolis on our way home to Anchorage.

*Edited to reflect that the hayride began in Hillsboro. We thought it began in Wonewow.

bear photo ops

On Friday, a hiker was killed by a grizzly in Denali National Park. We know that one of the last things he did was to watch and photograph the bear as it foraged for berries, then eventually moved toward him. We're still learning the details and the man is getting lots of criticism for how he broke the park's rules about staying away from bears and moving away if one is encountered unexpectedly. But I can't help but put myself in his shoes.

In the spring of last year, I agreed to write an article about places to bike along Turnagain Arm. A new trail in Portage Valley takes cyclists and walkers up the glacier-carved valley to Portage Lake and the visitor center opposite the receding glacier. The valley is fairly narrow, but is traversed by the railroad, a road and Portage Creek, which flows from the lake into the saltwater of Turnagain Arm.

Portage Lake on the Trail of Blue Ice. May, 2011.

Smaller streams feed into the creek and ponds dot the landscape. Up high are hanging glaciers. Then there's the Trail of Blue Ice. I started at the parking lot near the lake, winding through the forest past a campground, parking lots and ponds. Though never far from the road, it was easy to forget the road was nearby. I saw a family riding the trail that morning. I'd also seen a pile of bear scat near where I'd begun my ride.

After riding to the end of the trail and chatting with some visitors from the Lower-48, I turned around to head back. Though it was late May, the leaves hadn't opened on all the trees and shrubs. Riding into a clearing, I could see a black shape through the brush. I stopped and snapped a photo, not sure of the figure, then it disappeared. I rode a little farther up the trail. Then I saw the black bear in that clearing and I did the wrong thing.

I stopped again, pulled my camera from its case and snapped a few more photos. It was my third bear encounter in two weeks and at the moment I wasn't afraid. Lucky for me, the bear did the right thing and ran back into the brush. It was only then that the adrenaline hit me and I started getting nervous. I needed to get out of there; I hoped the bear wouldn't change its mind and give chase.

Black bear; Trail of Blue Ice. Portage Valley.

Soon I was riding past a pair of moose browsing in a pond, then made it back to the parking lot. I realize it was a pretty foolish move on my part just to get a few images. I've been close to many black bears on the trails around Anchorage. That doesn't make it any safer for me than it does for anyone else. To say they are unpredictable creatures is probably wrong. I'd say, bears are predictable: when they see you, they very often will run away. But as with may other predictions, you could be wrong. Best to back away, leave the area.
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To clarify, grizzlies and black bears respond differently to any given human behavior. If you're inclined to go into the backcountry, or even one of our municipal parks, it's best to learn to recognize behavior, know how to respond and learn how to use bear spray. Here's a place to start. Be safe.

who are you?

What defines you? I sometimes wonder. Before I moved to Alaska, before I met Jon, I would have said I was a hiker. I enjoyed hiking. But Alaska introduced me to a different kind of hiking; and Jon introduced me to mountain biking. Soon, I was identifying as a cyclist. My loves: mountain and touring. My desire: mountain touring. I have a short list. Then I placed it on hold.

My shoulder injury and eventual surgery have given me a little perspective. I've slowed down. Looked around more. Hiked places where bicycles aren't permitted. Trails I hadn't hiked before. A few friends have joined me, but most of my biking friends are doing what they love: mountain biking. Something I've told myself to not even think about for the last several months. Then, last week, I brought my snow bike home from my friends' house.

I'd loaned it out during the winter for a couple friends to try out and so it wouldn't be here in the house tempting me to go riding when I shouldn't. Before I put it in the car for the trip home, I pedaled it around on their street. It felt odd, stretched out, awkward to control. Once home, I pulled it out of the car, told Jon I'd rode in circles and he gave the only comment I could have expected: prove it! So, I again rode in circles, practiced my steering, feeling the stretch and the stress on my right arm.

Carefully riding in the cul-de-sac.

I still felt a long way from riding very far on the bike. Meanwhile, my occupational therapist had just released me from our twice-weekly sessions. I had an exercise list for getting stronger and increasing my mobility. I'd gone swimming and running in an effort to increase my strength and fitness. And I continued hiking.

Watermelon berries along a trail.

Pixie eye primrose, I believe. On the trail to Hidden Lake.

Last Saturday, I was hiking with my friend on the Rabbit Lake trail, one of my favorite hikes in the front range of Chugach State Park. We wound through a narrow wiggly stretch; I mentioned that it would be really fun on the bike. Returning from the lake, I noticed a slight blip on the trail and noted: this would be a good place to catch air, if I was the kind of person who caught air, that is. This is when my friend told me I was getting better; I was ready to start biking. I was reading the trail like a mountain biker, noting the grinding climb, the winds, the rocks.

She was right. I am ready to think like a mountain biker again. So yesterday, I decided to take a little spin around the neighborhood. Since the Mukluk (snow bike) is my most upright-fitting bike, I adjusted the seat and took off up the hill. I rode through streets I've walked many times in the last few months. I'd forgotten how much faster I can travel on the bike! I'm not sure how long I was out riding - not very; maybe 20 to 30 minutes - but it feels like I just overcame another tall hurdle in a series of hurdles. Getting so much closer to embracing one of those things that, much as I sometimes pretend doesn't, helps to define me. I am a cyclist.